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WAVEELEY NOVELS 

Pocket Edition 
VOL. X. 



By sir WALTER SCOTT, Bart. 



The White Lady and Father Philip. 


NEW YORK 

SCRIBNER, WELFORD, & ARMSTRONG 
1873 . 


■ ' t 

•f 


.^1 



B 60 UEST 

BEV. JULIUS w, ArWBBB 

iiJUNE S, 





It would be difficult to assign any good reason why the authoi 
of Ivanhoe, after using, in that work, all the art he possessed tc 
remove the personages, action, and manners of the tale, to a dis- 
tance from his own country, sliould choose for the scene of his 
next attempt the celebrated ruins of Melrose, in the immediate 
neighbourhood of his own residence. But the reason, or caprice, 
wliich dictated his change of system, has entirely escaped his 
recollection, nor is it worth while to attempt recalling what must 
be a matter of very little consequence. 

The general plan of the story was, to conjoin two chai’actei’s in 
that bustling and contentious age, who, thrown into situations 
which gave them different views on the subject of the Reforma- 
tion, should, with the same sincerity and purity of intention, 
dedicate themselves, the one to the support of tlie sinking fabric 
of the Catholic Church, the other to the establishment of tlie 
Unformed doctrines. It was supposed that some interesting 
subjects for narrative might be derived from opposing two such 
enthusiasts to each other in the path of life, and contrasting the 
real worth of both with their paSsions and prejudices. The 
localities of Melrose suited well the scenery of the proposed story ; 
the ruins themselves form a splendid tlieatre for any tragic incident 
which might bo brought forward ; joined to the vicinity of the 
fine river, with aU its tributary streams, flowing through a comi- 
try which has been the scene of so much fierce fighting, and is 
rich with so many recollections of former times, and lying almost 
under the immediate eye of the author, by whom they were to bfi 
used in composition. 

The situation possessed fiU'ther reconnnoudatious. On the 


4 


INTKODUCTIOX TO 


opposite bank of the Tweed, might be seen the remains of ancient 
enclosures, surrounded by sycamores and ash-trees of considerable 
size. These had once formed the crofts or arable ground of a 
village, now reduced to a single hut, the abode of a fisherman, 
who also manages a feriy. The cottages, even the church which 
once existed there, have sunk into vestiges hardly to be traced 
without visiting the spot, the inhabitants having gradually with- 
drawn to the more prosperous town of Galashiels, which has risen 
into considei’ation, within two miles of their neighbourhood. 
Superstitious eld, however, has tenanted the deserted gi'oves with 
aerial beings, to supply the want of the mortal tenants who have 
deserted it. The ruined and abandoned churchyard of Boldside 
has been long believed to be haunted by the Fairies, and the deep 
broad cuiTent of the Tweed, wheeling in moonlight round the 
foot of the steep bank, with the number of trees originally planted 
for shelter round the fields of the cottagers, but now jiresenting 
the effect of scattered and detached groves, fill up the idea which 
one would form in imagination for a scene that Oberon and 
Queen IVIab might love to revel in. There are evenings when 
the spectator might believe, with Father Chaucer, that the 

“ Queen of Faery, 

With harp, and pipe, and symphony. 

Were dwelling in the place,’* 

Another, and even a moi’e familiar refuge of the elfin race, (if 
tradition is to be trusted,) is the glen of the I’iver, or rather brook, 
named the Allen, which falls into the Tweed from the northward, 
about a quarter of a mile above the present bridge. As the 
streamlet finds its way behind Lord Sommerville’s hunting-seat, 
called the Pavilion, its valley has been popularly termed the Fairy 
Dean, or rather the Nameless Dean, because of the supposed ill 
luck attached by the popular faith of ancient times, to any one 
who might name or allude to the race, whom our father’s distin- 
guished as the Good Neighbours, and the Highlanders called 
Daoine Shie, or Men of Peace ; rather by way of compliment, 
than on account of any particular idea of friendship or pacific 
relation which either Highlander or Borderer entertained towards 
the irritable beings whom they thus distinguished, or supposed 
them to bear to humanity.* 

In evidence of the actual operations of the fairy people even at 
this time, little pieces of calcareous matter are found in the glen 
after a flood, which either the labours of those tiny artists, or tlie 
eddies of the brook among the stones, have formed into a fantastic 
* See Rob Roy, Note G. Fairy Siipcrst’iion. 


THE MONASTBIIY. 


reseiiiLlance of cups, saucers, basins, and the lilco, in whicli 
cliildren who gather them pretend to discern fairy utensils. 

Besides these circumstances of romantic locality, mea paupera 
regna (as Captain Dalgetty denominates his territory of Drum- 
thwacket) are bounded by a small but deep lake, from which eyes 
that yet look on the light are said to have seen the water-bull 
ascend, and shake the hills with his roar. 

Indeed, the country around Melrose, if possessing less ot 
romantic beauty than some other scenes in Scotland, is connected 
with so many associations of a fanciful nature, in which the 
imagination takes delight, as might well induce one even less 
attached to the spot than the author, to accommodate, after a 
general mannei’, the imaginary scenes he was framing to the 
localities to which he was partial. But it would be a misappre- 
hension to suppose, that, because Melrose may in general pass for 
Kennaquhair, or because it agrees with scenes of the Monastery 
in the circumstances of the drawbridge, the mill-dam, and other 
points of resemblance, that therefore an accurate or perfect local 
similitude is to be found in all the particulars of the picture. It 
was not the purpose of the author to present a landscape copied 
from nature, but a piece of composition, in which a real scene, 
with which he is familiar, had afforded him some leading outlines. 
Thus the resemblance of the imaginary Glendearg with the real 
vale of the Allen, is far from being minute, nor did the author 
aim at identifying them. This must appear plain to all who 
know the actual character of the Glen of Allen, and have taken 
the trouble to read the account of the imaginai’y Glendearg. The 
stream in the latter case is described as wandei-ing down a 
romantic little valley, shifting itself, after the fashion of such a 
brook, from one side to the other, as it can most easily find its 
passage, and touching nothing in its progress that gives token of 
cultivation. It rises near a solitary tower, the abode of a sup- 
posed church vassal, and the scene of several incidents in the 
Romance. 

The real Allen, on the contrary, after traversing the romantic 
ravine called the Nameless Dean, thi'own oft* from side to side 
alternately, like a billiard ball repelled by the sides of the table 
on which it has been played, and in that part of its course resem- 
bling the stream which pours down Glendearg, may be traced 
upwards into a more open country, where the banks retreat 
farther from each other, and the vale exhibits a good deal of dry 
ground, which has not been neglected by the active cultivators of 
the district. It arrives, too, at a sort of termination, striking in 


INTRODUCTION TO 


6 

itself, but totally irreconcilable with the narrative of the Romance. 
Instead of a single peel-house, or border tower of defence, such 
as Dame Glendinning is supposed to have inhabited, tlie head of 
tlie Allen, about five miles above its junction with the Tweed, 
shews three ruins of Border houses, belonging to different pro- 
prietors, and each, from the desire of mutual support so natural 
to troublesome times, situated at the extremity of the property of 
which it is the principal messuage. One of these is the ruinous 
mansion-house of Hillslap, formerly the property of the Cairn- 
crosses, and now of Mr Innes of Stow ; a second the tower of 
Colmslie, an ancient inheritance of the Borthwick family, as is 
testified by their crest, the Goat’s Head, which exists on the ruin ; 
a third, the house of Langsbaw, also ruinous, but near which the 
proprietor, Mr Baillie of Jerviswood and Mellerstain, has built a 
small shooting box. 

All these ruins, so strangely huddled together in a very solitary 
spot, have recollections and traditions of their own, but none of 
them bear the most distant resemblance to the descriptions in the 
Romance of the Monastery ; and as the author could hardly have 
erred so grossly regarding a spot within a morning’s ride of his 
own house, the inference is, that no resemblance was intended. 
Hillslap is remembered by the humours of the last inhabitants, 
two or three elderly ladies, of the class of Miss Raylands, in the 
Old Manor House, though less important by birth and fortune. 
Colmslie is commemorated in song : — 

Colmslie stands on Colmslie hill, 

The water it flows round Colmslie mill ; 

The mill and the kiln gang bonnily. 

And it ’s up with the whippers of Colmslie ! 

Langshaw, although larger than the other mansions assembled 
at the head of the supposed Glendearg, has nothing about it more 
remarkable than the inscription of the present proprietor over 
his sliooting lodge — Utinam hanc etiam viris impleam amicis — a 
modest wish, which I know no one more capable of attaining 
upon an extended scale, than the gentleman who has expressed it 
upon a limited one. 

Having thus shewn that I could say sometliing of these deso- 
lated towers, which the desire of social intercourse, or the facility 
of mutual defence, had drawm together at the head of this Glen, 
1 need not add any farther reason to shew, that there is no 
resemblance between them and the solitary habitation of Dame 
Filspeth Glendinning. Beyond these dwellings are some remains 
of natural wood, and a considerable portion of morass and bog ; 


THE MONASTERY. 


7 

but I would not advise any who may be curious in localities, to 
spend time in looking for the fountain and holly-tree of the White 
Lady. 

While I am on the subject I may add, that Captain Clutter- 
buck, the imaginary editor of the Monastery, has no real proto- 
type in the village of Melrose or neighbourhood, tliat ever I saw 
or heard of. To give some individuality to this personage, he is 
described as a character which sometimes occurs in actual society 
— a person who, having spent his life within the necessary duties 
of a technical profession, from which he has been at length eman- 
cipated, finds himself without any occupation whatever, and is 
apt to become the prey of ennui, until he discerns some petty 
subject of investigation commensurate to his talents, the study of 
which gives him employment in solitude ; while the conscious 
possession of information peculiar to himself, adds to liis conse- 
quence in society. I have often observed, tliat the lighter and 
ti’ivial branches of antiquarian study are singularly useful in 
relieving vacuity of such a kind, and have known them serve 
many a Captain Clutterbuck to retreat upon ; I was tlierefore a 
good deal surprised, when I found the antiquarian Captain iden- 
tified wdth a neighbour and friend of my own, who could never 
have been confounded with him by any one who had read the 
book, and seen the party alluded to. This erroneous identifici 
tion occurs in a work entitled, “ Illustrations of the Author of 
Waverley, being Notices and Anecdotes of real Characters. 
Scenes, and Incidents, supposed to be described in his works, by 
Robert Chambers.” This work was, of course, liable to many 
errors, as any one of the kind must be, whatever may bo the 
ingenuity of the author, which takes tlie task of explaining what 
can be only known to another person. Mistakes of place or 
inanimate things referred to, are of very little moment ; but the 
ingenious author ought to have been more cautious of attacliing 
real names to fictitious characters. I think it is in the Spectator 
we read of a rustic wag, who, in a copy of “ The Whole Duty of 
Man,” wrote opposite to every vice the name of some individual 
in the neighbourhood, and thus converted tliat excellent work 
into a libel on a whole parish. 

The scenery being thus ready at the author’s hand, tlie remini- 
scences of tlie country were equally favourable. In a land where 
the horses remained almost constantly saddled, and the sword 
seldom quitted the warrior’s side — where war was the natural 
and constant state of the inhabitants, and peace only existed in 
the shape of brief and feverish truces — there could be no want 


INTRODUCTION TO 


8 

of the means to complicate and extricate the incidents of his nar- 
rative at pleasure. There was a disadvantage, notwithstanding, 
in treading this Border district, for it had been already ransacked 
by the author himself, as well as others ; and unless presented 
under a new light, was likely to afford ground to the objection of 
Cramhe bis cocta. 

To attain the indispensable quality of novelty, something, it 
was thought, might be gained by contrasting the character of the 
vassals of tlie church with those of the dependants of the lay 
barons, by whom they were surrounded. But much advantage 
could not be derived from this. There were, indeed, differences 
betwixt the two classes, but, like tribes in the mineral and vege- 
table world, which, resembling each other to common eyes, can 
be sufficiently well discriminated by naturalists, they were yet 
too similar, upon the whole, to be placed in marked contrast with 
each other. 

Machinery remained — the introduction of the supernatural and 
marvellous ; the resort of distressed avithors since the days oi 
Horace, but whose privileges as a sanctuary have been disputed 
in the present age, and well-nigh exploded. The popular belief 
no longer allows the possibility of existence to the race of myste- 
rious beings which hovered betwixt this world and that which is 
invisible. The fairies have abandoned their moonlight turf ; the 
witch no longer holds her black orgies in the hemlock dell ; and 

*• Even the last lingering pli.antom of the brain. 

The churchyard ghost, is now at rest again.” 

From the discredit attached to the vulgar and more connnon 
modes in which the Scottish superstition displays itself, the author 
was induced to have I’ecourse to the beautiful, though almost 
forgotten, theory of astral spirits, or creatures of the elements, 
surpassing human beings in knowledge and power, but inferior to 
them, as being subject, after a certain space of years, to a death 
which is to them annihilation, as they have no share in the pro- 
mise made to the sons of Adam. These spirits are supposed to 
be of four distinct kinds, as the elements from which they have 
their origin, and are known, to those who have studied the caba- 
listical philosophy, by the names of Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, 
and Naiads, as they belong to the elements of Air, Earth, Fire, 
or Water. The general reader will find an entertaining account 
of these elementary spirits in the French book, entitled, “ Entre- 
tiens de Compte du Gabalis.” The ingenious Compte de la Motte 
Fouque' composed, in German, one of the most successful produc- 
tions of his fertile brain, where a beautiful and even afflicting 


THE MONASTE^IY. 


9 

effect is produced by the introduction of a water nympli^ who 
loses the privilege of immortality, by consenting to become acces- 
sible to human feelings, and uniting her lot with that of a mortal, 
who treats her with ingratitude. 

In imitation of an example so successful, the White Lady of 
Avenel was introduced into the following sheets. She is repre- 
sented as connected with the family of Avenel by one of those 
mystic ties, which, in ancient times, were supposed to exist, in 
certain circumstances, between the creatures of the elements and 
the children of men. Such instances of mysterious union are 
recognized in Ireland, in the real Milesian families, who are 
possessed of a Banshie ; and they are known among the traditions 
of the Highlands, which, in many cases, attached an immortal 
being or spirit to the service of particular families or tribes. 
These demons, if they are to be called so, announced good or evil 
fortune to the families connected with them ; and though some 
only condescended to meddle with matters of importance, others, 
like the May Mollach, or Maid of the Hairy Arms, condescended 
to mingle in ordinary sports, and even to direct the Chief how to 
play at draughts. 

There w'as, therefore, no great violence in supposing such a 
l)eing as this to have existed, while the elementary spirits were 
believed in ; but it w\as more difficult to describe or imagine its 
attributes and principles of action. Shakspeare, the first of 
authorities in such a case, has painted Ariel, that beautiful crea- 
ture of his fancy, as only approaching so near to humanity as to 
know the nature of that sympathy w'hich the creatures of clay 
felt for each other, as wo learn from the expression — “IMine 
would, if I were human.” The inferences from this are singular, 
but seem capable of regular deduction. A being, however supe- 
rior to man in length of life — in power over the elements — in 
certain perceptions respecting the present, the past, and the 
future, yet still incapable of human passions, of sentiments of 
moral good and evil, of meriting futui-e rewards or punishments, 
belongs rather to the class of animals, than of human creatures, 
and must therefore be presumed to act more from temporary 
benevolence or caprice, than from any thing approaching to feel- 
ing or reasoning. Such a being’s superiority in power can only 
be compared to that of the elephant or lion, who are greater in 
strength than man, though inferior in the scale of creation. The 
partialities which we suppose such spirits to entertain must be 
like those of the dog ; their sudden starts of passion, or the indul- 
gence of a frolic, or mischief, may be compared to those of tlie 


10 


INTRODUCTION TO 


numerous varieties of the cat. All these propensities arc, how- 
ever, conti'olled by the laws which render the elementary race 
subordinate to the command of man — liable to be subjected by 
his science, (so the sect of Gnostics believed, and on this turned 
the Rosicrucian philosophy,) or to be overpoAvered by his superior 
courage and daring, when it set their illusions at defiance. 

It is with reference to this idea of the supposed spirits of the 
elements, that tlie White Lady of Avenel is represented as acting 
a varying, capricious, and inconsistent part in the pages assigned 
to her in the narrative ; manifesting interest and attachment to 
the family with whom her destinies are associated, but evincing 
whim, and even a species of malevolence, towards other mortals, 
as the Sacristan and the Border robber, whose incorrect life sub- 
jected them to receive petty mortifications at her hand. The 
White Lady is scarcely supposed, however, to have possessed 
either the power or the inclination to do more than inflict terror 
or create embarrassment, and is always subjected by those mor- 
tals, who, by virtuous resolution, and mental energy, could assert 
superiority over her. In these particulars she seems to constitutp 
a being of a middle class, between the esprit follet who places it? 
pleasure in misleading and tormenting mortals, and the benevo- 
lent Fairy of the East, who uniformly guides, aids, and supports 
them. 

Either, however, the author executed his purpose indifferently, 
or the public did not approve of it ; for the White Lady of Avenel 
was far from being popular. He does not now make the present 
statement, in the view of arguing readers into a more favourable 
opinion on the subject, but merely with the purpose of exculpating 
himself from the charge of having wantonly intruded into the 
narrative a being of inconsistent powers and propensities. 

In the delineation of another character, the author of the 
Monastery failed, where he hoped for some success. As nothing 
is so successful a subject of ridicule as the fashionable follies of 
the time, it occimred to him that the more serious scenes of his 
narratiA^e might be relieved by the humour of a cavaliero of the 
age of Queen Elizabeth. In every period, the attempt to gain 
and maintain the highest rank of society, has depended on the 
power of assuming and supporting si certain fashionable kind of 
affectation, usually connected with some vivacity of talent and 
energy of character, but distinguished at the same time by a 
transcendent flight, beyond sound reason and common sense •, 
both faculties too vulgiu* to be admitted into the estimate of one 
who claims to be esteemed “a choice spirit of the age.” These, 


THE MONASTERY. 


IJ 


hi their different phases, constitute the gallants of the day, whose 
Doast it is to drive tlie whims of fashion to extremity. 

On all occasions, the manners of the sovereign, the court, and 
the time, must give the tone to the peculiar description of qualities 
by which those who would attain the height of fashion must seek to 
distinguish themselves. The reign of Elizabeth, being that of a 
maiden queen, was distinguished by the decorum of the courtiers, 
and especially the affectation of the deepest deference to the 
sovereign. After the acknowledgment of the Queen’s matchless 
perfections, the same devotion was extended to beauty as it 
existed among the lesser stars in her court, who sparkled, as it 
was the mode to say, by her reflected lustre. It is true, that 
gallant knights no longer vowed to Heaven, tlie peacock, and the 
ladies, to perform some feat of extravagant chivalry, in which 
they endangered the lives of others as well as their own ; but 
although their chivalrous displays of personal gallantry seldom 
went farther in Elizabeth’s days than the tilt-yard, where barri- 
cades, called barriers, prevented the shock of the horses, and 
limited the display of the cavaliers’ skill to the comparatively safe 
encoimter of their lances, the language of the lovers to their 
ladies was still in the exalted terms which Amadis would have 
addressed to Oriana, before encountering a dragon for her sake. 
This tone of romantic gallantry found a clever but conceited 
author, to reduce it to a species of constitution and form, and lay 
dow’n the courtly manner of conversation, in a pedantic book, 
called Euphues and his England. Of this, a brief account is given 
in tlie text, to which it may now be proper to make some addi- 
tions. 

The extravagance of Euphuism, or a symbolical jargon of the 
same class, predominates in the romances of Calprenade and 
Scuderi, which were read for the amusement of the fair sex of 
France during the long reign of Louis XIV., and were supposed 
to contain the only legitimate language of love and gallantry. In 
this reign they encountered the satire of Moliere and Boileau. A 
similar disorder, spreading into private society, formed the ground 
of the affected dialogue of the Precieuses, as they were styled, 
who formed the coterie of the Hotel de Rambouillet, and afforded 
Moliere matter for his admirable comedy, Les Precieuses Ridi- 
cules. In England, the humour does not seem to have long 
survived the accession of James I. 

The autlior had the vamty to think that a character, whose 
peculiarities should turn on extravagances which were once 
universally fashionable, might be read in a fictitious story with a 


12 


INTRODUCTION TO 


good chance of affording amusement to the existing generation, 
who, fond as they are of looking back on the actions and manners 
of tlieir ancestors, might be also supposed to be sensible of their 
absurdities. He must fairly acknowledge that he was dis- 
appointed, and that the Euphuist, far from being accounted a 
well drawn and humorous character of the period, was condemned 
as unnatural and absurd. 

1 1 would be easy to account for this failure, by supposing the 
defect to arise from the author’s want of skill, and, probably, 
many readers may not bo inclined to look farther. But, as the 
author himself can scarcely be supposed willing to acquiesce in 
this final cause, if any other can be alleged, he has been led to 
suspect, that, contrary to what he originally supposed, his subject 
was injudiciously chosen, in which, and not in his mode of treat- 
ing it, lay the source of the want of success. 

The manners of a rude people are always founded on nature, 
and thei’efore the feelings of a more polished generation imme- 
diately sympathize with them. We need no numerous notes, no 
antiquarian dissertations, to enable the most ignorant to recog- 
nize the sentiments and diction of the characters of Homer ; we 
have but, as Lear says, to strip off our lendings — to set aside the 
factitious principles and adoi’nments which we have received from 
our comparatively artificial system of society, and our natural 
feelings are in unison with those of the bard of Chios and the 
heroes who live in his verses. It is the same with a great part of 
the narratives of my friend Mr Cooper. We sympathize with 
his Indian chiefs and back-woodsmen, and acknowledge, in the 
chai’acters which he presents to us, the same truth of human 
nature by which we should feel ourselves influenced if placed in 
the same condition. So much is this the case, that though it is 
difficult, or almost impossible, to reclaim a savage, bi*ed from his 
youth to war and the chase, to the restraints and the duties of 
civilized life, nothing is more easy or common, than to find men 
who have been educated in all the habits and comforts of improved 
society, willing to exchange them for the wild labours of the 
hunter and the fisher. The very amusements most pursued and 
relished by men of all ranks, whose constitutions permit active 
exercise, are hunting, fishing, and in some instances, war, the 
natural and necessary business of the savage of Dryden, vvhere his 
hero talks of being . 

“ As free as nature first made man, 

When wild in woods the noble savage ran.” 

But although the occupations, and even the sentiment.s, of 


TilE MONASTERY. 


13 

Iiriiiiau beings in a primitive state, find access and interest in tlie 
minds of tlie more civilized part of the species, it docs not there- 
fore follow, that the national tastes, opinions, and follies, of one 
civilized period, should afford either the same interest or tlie same 
amusement to those of another. These generally, when driven 
to extravagance, arc founded, not upon any natural taste proper 
to the species, but upon the gi’owth of some peculiar cast of 
affectation, with which mankind in general, and succeeding gene- 
rations in particular, feel no common interest or sympathy. The 
extravagances of coxcombry in manners and apparel are indeed 
the legitimate, and often the successful objects of satire, during 
the time Avhen they exist. In evidence of this, theatrical critics 
may observe how many dramatic jeiix (T esprit are well received 
every season, because the satirist levels at some well known or 
fashionable absurdity ; or, in the dramatic phrase, “ shoots folly 
as it flies.” But when the peculiar kind of folly keeps the wing 
no longei’, it is reckoned but waste of powder to pour a discharge 
of ridicule on what has ceased to exist ; and the pieces in which 
such forgotten absui-dities are made the subject of ridicule, fall 
quietly into oblivion with the follies which gave them fashion, or 
only continue to exist on the scene, because they contain some 
other more permanent interest than that which connects them 
with manners and follies of a temporary character. 

This, perhaps, affords a reason Avhy the comedies of Bon 
Jonson, founded upon system, or what the age termed humours, 
— by which was meant factitious and affected characters, super- 
induced on that which was common to the rest of their race, — 
in spite of acute satii'e, deep scholarship, and strong sense, do 
not now afford general pleasure, but are confined to the closet of 
the antiquary, whose studies have assured him that the personages 
of the dramatist were once, though they are now no longer, por- 
traits of existing nature. 

Let us take another example of our hypothesis from Shak- 
si>eare himself, who, of all authors, drew his portraits for all ages. 
With the Avhole sum of the idolatry Avhich affects us at his name, 
the mass of readers pei'use, Avithout amusement, the characters 
f )rmed on the extravagances of temporary fashion ; and the 
Lnphuist Don Armado, the pedant Holofernes, eA'en Nym and 
Pistol, are read Avith little pleasure by the mass of the public, 
being portraits of Avhich Ave cannot recognize the humour, because 
the originals no longer exist. In like manner, Avhile the distresses 
of Romeo and Juliet continue to interest every bosom, Mercutio, 
t'raAvn as an accurate representation of the finished fine gentleman 


14 


INTRODUCTION TO 


of tho period, and as such received by the unanimous approba- 
tion of contemporaries, has so little to interest the present age, 
tliat, stripped of all his puns and quirks of verbal mt, he only 
retains his place in the scene, in 'virtue of his fine and fanciful 
speech upon dreaming, which belongs to no particular age, and 
because he is a personage whose presence is indispensable to the 
plot. 

We have already prosecuted perhaps too far an argument, the 
tendency of which is to prove, that the introduction of an 
humorist, acting, like Sir Piercie Shafton, upon some forgotten 
and obsolete model of folly, once fashionable, is rather likely to 
awaken the disgust of the reader, as unnatural, than find him 
food for laughter. Whether o\ving to this theory, or whether to 
the more simple and probable cause of the author’s failure in the 
delineation of the subject he had proposed to himself, the formi- 
dable objection of incredulus odi was applied to the Euphuist, as 
well as to the White Lady of Avenel ; and the one was denounced 
as unnatural, while the other was reje'cted as impossible. 

There was little in the story to atone for these failures in 
two principal points. Tlie incidents were inartificially huddled 
together. There was no part of the intrigue to which deep inte- 
rest was found to apply ; and the conclusion was brought about, 
not by incidents arising out of the stoi'y itself, but in consequence 
of public transactions, with which the narrative has little connec- 
tion, and which the reader had little opportunity to become 
acquainted with. 

This, if not a positive fault, was yet a great defect in the 
Romance. It is true, that not only the practice of some great 
authors in this department, but even the general course of human 
life itself, may be quoted in favour of this more obvious, and less 
artificial practice, of aiTanging a narrative. It is seldom that the 
same circle of personages who have surrounded an individual at 
his first outset in life, continue to have an interest in his career 
till his fate comes to a crisis. On the contrary, and more espe- 
cially if tlie events of his life be of a varied character, and worth 
communicating to others, or to the world, the hero’s later con- 
nections are usually totally separated from those with whom he 
began tlie voyage, but whom the individual has outsailed, or who 
have drifted astray, or foundered on the passage. This hackneyed 
comparison holds good in another point. The numerous vessels 
of so many different sorts, and destined for such different pur- 
poses, which are lanched in tlie same mighty ocean, although each 
endeavours to pm’sue its own course, are in every case more 


THE MONASTERY. 


15 

influenced by the winds and tides, wliicli are common to tlie 
element which they all navigate, than by their own separate 
exertions. And it is thus in the world, that, when human pru- 
dence has done its best, some general, perhaps national, event, 
destroys the schemes of the individual, as the casual touch of a 
more powerful being sweeps away the web of the spider. 

Many excellent romances have been composed in this view of 
human life, where the hero is conducted through a variety of 
detached scenes, in which various agents appear and disappear, 
without, perhaps, having any permanent influence on the progress 
of the story. Such is the structure of Gil Bias, Roderick Ran- 
dom, and the lives and adventures of many other heroes, who are 
described as running through different stations of life, and 
encountering various adventures, which are only connected with 
each other by haviug happened to be witnessed by the same indi- 
vidual, whose identity unites them together, as the string of a 
necklace links the beads, which are otherwise detached. 

But though such an unconnected course of adventures is what 
most freauently occurs in nature, yet the province of the romance 
writer being artificial, there is more required from him than a 
mere compliance with the simplicity of reality, — just as w'e 
demand from tlie scientific gardener, that he shall airange, in 
curious knots and artificial parterres, the flowers which “ nature 
boon” distributes freely on hill and dale. Fielding, accordingly, 
in most of his novels, but especially in Tom Jones, his chef- 
d’oeuvre, has set the distinguished example of a story regularly 
built and consistent in all its parts, in which nothing occurs, and 
scarce a personage is introduced, that has not some share in 
tending to advance the catastrophe. 

To demand equal correctness and felicity in those who may 
follow in the track of that illustrious novelist, would be to fetter 
too much tlie power of giving pleasure, by suiTounding it with 
penal rules ; since of this sort of light literature it may be espe- 
cially said — tout genre est permis, hors le genre ennuyeux. Still, 
however, the more closely and happily tlie story is combined, and 
tlie more natural and felicitous the catastrophe, the nearer such 
a composition will approach the perfection of the novelist’s art ; 
nor can an author neglect this branch of his profession, without 
incurring proportional censure. 

For such censure the Monastery gave but too much occasion. 
The intrigue of tlie Romance, neither very interesting in itself, 
nor very happily detailed, is at length finally disentangled by the 
breaking out of national hostilities between England and Scotland, 


INTRODUCTION TO THE MONASTERY. 


in 

and the as sudden renewal of the truce. Instances of this kind, 
it is true, cannot in reality have been uncommon, but the resort- 
ing to such, in order to accomplish the catastrophe, as by a tour 
de foi'cr, WS.S objected to as inartificial, and not perfectly intel- 
ligible to the general reader. 

Still the Monastery, though exposed to severe and just criticism, 
did not fail, judging from the extent of its cii’culation, to have 
some interest for the public. And this, too, was according to the 
ordinary course of such matters ; for it very seldom happens that 
literary reputation is gained by a single effort, and still more 
rarely is it lost by a solitary miscandage. 

The author, therefore, had his days of grace allowed him, and 
time, if he pleased, to comfort himself with the burden of the old 
Scots song, 

“ If it isna wcel bobbit, 

We ’ll bob it again.” 


AnnoTSFORB, 
bJt Jiove?nbcr, ItBO. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE 


FROM 

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, 

LATE OF HIS MAJESTY’S REGIJIENT OF INFANTRY, 


TO 

THE AUTHOR OF « WAVERLEY.” 


Sir, 

Although I do not pretend to the pleasure of your personal 
acquaintance, like many whom I believe to be equally strangers 
to you, I am nevertheless interested in your publications, and 
tlesire their continuance ; — not that I pretend to much taste m 
fictitious composition, or that I am apt to be interested in your 
grave scenes, or amused by those which are meant to be lively. 
I will not disguise from you, that I have yawned over the last 
interview of IMacIvor and his sister, and fell fairly asleep while 
the schoolmaster was reading the humours of Uandie Dinmont. 
You see, sir, that I scorn to solicit your favour in a way to 
which you are no stranger. If the papers I enclose you are 
worth nothing, I will not endeavour to recommend tliem by 
personal flattery, as a bad cook pours rancid butter upon stale 
fish. No, sir ! what I respect in you, is the light you have 
occasionally thrown on national antiquities, a study which I have 
commenced rather late in life, but to which I am attached with 
the devotion of a first love, because it is the only study I ever 
cared a farthing for. 

You shall have my history, sir, (it will not reach to three 
volumes,) before that of my manuscript; and as yon usually 
throw out a few lines of verse (by way of skirmishers, I suppose) 
at the head of each division of prose, [ have had the luck to iiglit 


INTKODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


18 

upon a stanza in the schoolmaster’s copy of Burns which de- 
scribes me exactly. I love it the better, because it was originally 
designed for Captain Grose, an excellent antiquary, though, like 
yourself, somewhat too apt to treat with levity his own pursuits : 

’Tis said he was a soldier bred, 

And ane wad rather fa’en than fled ; 

But now he ’s quit the spurtle blade. 

And dDg-skin wallet. 

And ta’en the — antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

r never could conceive what influenced me, when a boy, in the 
choice of a profession. Military zeal and ardour it was not, 
which made me stand out for a commission in the Scots Fusiliers, 
when my tutors and curators wished to bind me apprentice to 
old David Stiles, Clerk to his Majesty’s Signet. I say, military 
zeal it was not ; for I was no fighting boy in my own person, 
and cared not a penny to read the history of the heroes who 
turned the world upside down in former ages. As for courage, I 
had, as I have since discovered, just as much of it as served my 
turn, and not one grain of surplus. I soon found out, indeed, 
that in action there was more danger in running away than in 
standing fast ; and besides, I could not afford to lose my com- 
mission, which was my chief means of support. But, as for that 
overboiling valour, which I have heard many of ours talk of, 
though I seldom observed that it influenced them in the actual 
affair — that exuberant zeal, which courts Danger as a bride, — - 
truly my courage was of a complexion much less ecstatical. 

Again, the love of a red coat, which, in default of all other 
aptitudes to the profession, has made many a bad soldier and 
some good ones, was an utter stranger to my disposition. I 
cared not a “ bodle” for the company of the misses : Nay, 
though there was a boarding-school in the village, and though we 
used to meet with its fair inmates at Simon Lightfoot’s weekly 
Practising, I cannot recollect any strong emotions being excited 
on these occasions, excepting tlie infinite regret with which T 
went through the polite ceremonial of presenting my partner 
with an orange, thrust into my pocket by my aunt for this special 
purpose, but which, had I dared, I certainly would have secreted 
for my own personal use. As for vanity, or love of finery for 
itself, I was such a stranger to it, that the difficulty was great to 
make me brush my coat, and appear in proper trim upon parade. 
I shall never forget the rebuke of my old Colonel on a morning 
when the King reviewed a brigade of which oui's made part. “ I 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


19 

Bm no friend to extravagance, Ensign Clutterbuck,” said he ; 
" hut, on the day when we are to pass before the Sovereign of 
the kingdom, in the name of God I would have at least shewn 
him an inch of clean linen.” 

Thus, a stranger to the ordinary motives which lead young 
men to make the army their choice, and without the least desire 
to become either a hero or a dandy, I really do not know what 
determined my thoughts that way, unless it were the happy state 
of half-pay indolence, enjoyed by Captain Doolittle, who had set 
up his staff of rest in my native village. Every other person had, 
or seemed to have, something to do, less or more. They did not, 
indeed, precisely go to school and learn tasks, that last of evils in 
my estimation ; but it did not escape my boyish observation, that 
they were all bothered with something or other like duty or 
labour — all but the happy Captain Doolittle. The minister had 
his parish to visit, and his preaching to prepare, though perhaps 
he made more fuss than he needed about both. The laird had 
bis farming and improving operations to superintend ; and, be- 
sides, he had to attend trustee meetings, and lieutenancy meetings, 
and head-courts, and meetings of justices, and what not — was as 
early up, (that I detested,) and as much in the open air, wet and 
dry, as his own grieve. The shopkeeper (the village boasted 
but one of eminence) stood indeed pretty much at his ease behind 
his counter, for his custom was by no means overburdensome ; 
but still he enjoyed his status, as the Bailie calls it, upon condi- 
tion of tumbling all the wares in his booth over and over, when 
any one chose to want a yard of muslin, a mousetrap, an ounce 
of caraways, a paper of pins, the Sermons of Mr Peden, or the 
Life of Jack the Giant-Queller, (not Killer, as usually erroneously 
written and pronounced. — See my essay on the true history of 
this worthy, where real facts have in a peculiar degree been 
obscured by fable.) In short, all in the village were under the 
necessity of doing something which they would rather have left 
undone, excepting Captain Doolittle, who walked every morning 
in the open street, which formed the high mall of our village, in 
a blue coat with a red neck, and played at whist the whole even- 
ing, when he could make up a party. This happy vacuity of all 
employment appeared to me so delicious, that it became the 
primary hint, which, according to the system of Helvetius, as 
the minister says, determuied my infant talents towards the 
profession I was destined to illustrate. 

But who, alas ! can form a just estimate of their future pros- 
pects in this deceitful world ? I was not long engaged in my 


20 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


new profession, before I discovered, that if the independent 
indolence of half-pay was a paradise, the officer must pass 
through the purgatory of duty and service in order to gain 
admission to it. Captain Doolittle might brush his blue coat 
with the red neck, or leave it unbrushed, at his pleasure ; but 
Ensign Clutterbuck had no such option. Captain Doolittle might 
go to bed at ten o’clock, if he had a mind ; but the Ensign must 
make tlie rounds in his turn. What was worse, the Captain 
might repose under the tester of his tent-bed until noon, if he 
was so pleased ; but the Ensign, God help him, had to appear 
upon parade at peep of day. As for duty, I made that as easy 
as I could, had the sergeant to whisper to me the words of 
command, and bustled through as other folks did. Of service, I 
saw enough for an indolent man — was buffeted up and down the 
world, and visited both the East and West Indies, Egypt, and 
other distant places, which my youth had scarce dreamed of. 
The French I saw, and felt too ; witness two fingers on my 
right hand, which one of their cursed hussars took off with his 
sabre as neatly as an hospital surgeon. At length the death of 
an old aunt, who left me some fifteen hundred pounds, snugly 
vested in the three per cents, gave me the long-wished-for oppor- 
tunity of retiring, Avith the prospect, of enjoying a clean shirt and 
a guinea four times a-Aveek at least. 

For the purpose of commencing my neAv A\^ay of life, I selected 
for my residence the village of Kennaquhair, in the south of 
Scotland, celebrated for the ruins of its magnificent Monastery, 
intending there to lead my future life in the otmrn cum dignltate 
of half-pay and annuity. I AA^as not long, hoAvever, in making 
the grand discovery, that in order to enjoy leisure, it is abso- 
lutely necessary it should be preceded by occupation. For 
some time, it Avas delightful to Avake at daybreak, dreaming of 
the reveille — then to recollect my happy emancipation from the 
slavery that doomed me to start at a piece of clattering parch- 
ment, turn on my other side, damn the parade, and go to sleep 
again. But even this enjoyment had its termination ; and time, 
Avhen it became a stock entirely at my oAvn disposal, began to 
hang heavy on my hand. 

I angled for tAvo days, during which time I lost tAventy hooks, 
and several scores of yards of gut and line, and caught not even 
a minnoAV. Hunting Avas out of the question, for the stomach of 
a horse by no means agrees Avith the half-pay establishment. 
When I shot, the shepherds and ploughmen, and my A^ery dog, 
quizzed me every time that I missed, Avhich was, generally 


1 NT ROD UCTORY EPI STL E . 


21 


ejieaking, every time I fired. Besides, the country gentlemen in 
this quarter like their game, and began to talk of prosecutions 
and interdicts. I did not give up fighting the French to com- 
mence a domestic war with the “ pleasant men of Teviotdale,” 
as the song calls them ; so I e’en spent three days (very agree- 
ably) in cleaning my gun, and disposing it upon two hooks over 
my chimney-piece. 

The success of this accidental experiment set me on trying my 
skill in the mechanical arts. Accordingly, I took down and 
cleaned my landlady’s cuckoo-clock, and in so doing, silenced 
that companion of the spring for ever and a day. I mounted a 
turning-lathe, and in attempting to use it, I very nearly cribbed 
off, with an inch-and-half former, one of the fingers which the 
hussar had left me. 

Books I tried, both those of the little circulating library, and 
of the more rational subscription collection maintained by this 
intellectual people. But neither the light reading of the one, nor 
the heavy artillery of the other, suited my purpose. I always 
fell asleep at the fourth or fifth page of history or disquisition ; 
ami it took me a month’s hard reading to wade through a half- 
bound trashy novel, during which I was pestered with applica- 
tions to return the volumes, by every half-bred milliner’s miss 
about the place. In short, during the hours when all the toAvn 
besides had something to do, I had nothing for it, but to walk in 
the churchyard, and whistle till it was dinner-time. 

During these promenades, the Ruins necessarily forced them- 
selves on my attention, and, by degrees, I found myself engaged 
in studying the more minute ornaments, and at length the general 
plan, of this noble structure. The old sexton aided my labours, 
and gave me his portion of traditional lore. Every day added 
something to my stock of knowledge respecting the ancient state 
of the building ; and at length I made discoveries concerning the 
purpose of several detached and very ruinous portions of it, the 
use of which had hitherto been either unknown altogether or 
erroneously explained. 

The knowledge which I thus acquired I had frequent oppor- 
tunities of retailing to those visiters whom the progress of a 
Scottish tour brought to visit this celebrated spot. Without 
encroaching on tlie privilege of my friend the sexton, I became 
gradually an assistant Cicerone in the task of description and 
explanation, and often (seeing a fresh party of visiters arrive) has 
lie turned over to me tliose to whom he had told half his story, 
with the flattering observation, '‘What needs I say ony mair 


22 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


about it ? There ’s the Captain kens mair anent it than I do, or 
any man in the town.” Then would I salute the strangers 
courteously, and expatiate to their astonished minds upon crypts 
and chancels, and naves, arches. Gothic and Saxon architraves, 
niullions and flying buttresses. It not unfrequently happened, 
that an acquaintance which commenced in the Abbey concluded 
in the inn, which served to reheve the sohtude as well as the 
monotony of my landlady’s shoulder of mutton, whether roast, 
cold, or hashed. 

By degrees my mind became enlarged ; I found a book or two 
which enlightened me on the subject of Gothic architecture, and 
I read now with pleasure, because I was interested in what I 
read about. Even my character began to dilate and expand. I 
spoke with more authority at the club, and was listened to with 
deference, because on one subject, at least, I possessed more 
information than any of its members. Indeed, I found that even 
my stories about Egypt, w'hich, to say truth, were somewhat 
thread-bare, were now listened to with more respect than for- 
merly. “ The Captain,” they said, “ had something in him after 
a’, — there were few folk kend sae muckle about the Abbey.” 

With this general approbation waxed my own sense of self- 
importance, and my feeling of general comfort. I ate with more 
appetite, I digested with more ease, I lay down at night with joy, 
and slept sound till morning, when I arose with a sense of busy 
importance, and hied me to measure, to examine, and to compare 
the various parts of this interesting structure. I lost all sense 
and consciousness of certain unpleasant sensations of a nondescript 
nature, about my head and stomach, to which I had been in the 
habit of attending, more for the benefit of the village apothecary 
than my own, for the pure want of something else to think about. 
I had found out an occupation unwittingly, and was happy because 
I had sometliing to do. In a word, I had commenced local 
antiquary, and was not unworthy of the name. 

Whilst I was in this pleasing career of busy idleness, for so it 
might at best be called, it happened that I was one night sitting 
in my little parlour, adjacent to the closet which my landlady 
calls my bedroom, in the act of preparing for an early retreat to 
the realms of Morpheus. Dugdale’s Monasticon, borrowed from 

the library at A , was lying on the table before me, flanked 

by some excellent Cheshire cheese, (a present, by the way, from 
an honest London citizen, to whom I had explained the difference 
betwixt a Gothic and a Saxon arch,) and a glass of Vanderhagen’s 
best ale. Thus armed at all points against my old enemy Time, 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


23 

I was leisurely and deliciously preparing for bed — now reading 
a line of old Dugdale — now^ sipping my ale, or munching my 
bread and cheese — now undoing the strings at my breeches’ 
knees, or a button or two of my waistcoat, uhtil the village clock 
should strike ten, before which time I make it a rule never to go 
to bed. A loud knocking, however, interrupted my ordinary 
process on this occasion, and the voice of my honest landlord of 
the George was heard vociferating,* What the deevil, Mrs 
Grimslees, the Captain is no in his bed ? and a gentleman at our 
house has ordei’ed a fowl and minced collops, and a bottle of 
slierry, and has sent to ask him to supper, to tell him all about 
the Abbey.” 

“ Na,” answered Luckie Grimslees, in the true sleepy tone of a 
Scottish matron when ten o’clock is going to strike, “ he ’s no in 
his bed, but I ’se warrant him no gae out at this time o’ night to 
keep folks sitting up waitmg for him — the Captain ’s a decent 
man.” 

I plainly perceived this last compliment was made for my 
hearing, by w*ay both of indicating and of recommending the 
course of conduct which Mi's Grimslees desired I should pursue. 
But I had not been knocked about the world for thirty years and 
odd, and lived a bluff bachelor all the while, to come home and 
be put under petticoat government by my landlady. Accordingly 
I opened my chamber-door, and desired my old friend David to 
\valk up stairs. 

“ Captain,” said he, as he entered, “ I am as glad to find you 
up as if I had hooked a tv/enty pound saumon. There’s a gentle- 
man up yonder that will not sleep sound in his bed this blessed 
night, unless he has the pleasure to drink a glass of wine with 
you.” 

“You know, David,” I replied, with becoming dignity, “that 
I cannot with propriety go out to visit strangers at this time of 
night, or accept of invitations from people of whom I know 
nothing.” 

David swore a round oath, and added, “Was ever the like 
heard of ? He has ordered a fowl and egg sauce, a pancake and 

* Tlie George was, and is, the principal inn in the village of Kennaquhair, cr 
Jlelrose. But the landlord of the period was not the same civil and quiet person 
by whom the inn is now kept. David Kyle, a 31elrose proprietor of no little 
importance, a first-rate person of consequence in whatever belonged to the 
business of the tovm, was the original owner and landlord of the inn. Poor 
David ! like many other busy men, took so much care of public affairs, as in some 
degree to neglect his own. Thei’e are persons still alive at Kennaquhair who 
can recognize him and his peculiarities in the foUowins: sketch of mine Host of 
the George. 


24 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


minclied collops, and a bottle of sherry — D ’ye tliinlc I wad come 
and ask you to go to keep company with ony bit English r ider, 
that sups on toasted cheese, and a cheerer of rum-toddy ? This 
is a gentleman every inch of him, and a virtuoso, a clean virtuoso 
— a sad-coloured stand of claithes, and a wig like the curled back 
of a mug-ewe. The very first question he speered was about the 
auld drawbrig that has been at the bottom of the water these twal 
score years — I have seen the fundations when we were sticking 
saumon — And how the deevil suld he ken ony thing about the old 
drawbrig, unless he were a virtuoso?”* 

David being a virtuoso in his own way, and moreover a land- 
holder and heritor, was a qualified judge of all who frequented his 
house, and therefore I could not avoid again tying the strings of 
my knees. 

“That’s right. Captain,” vociferated David; “you twa will be 
as thick as three in a bed an ance ye forgather. I haena seen 
the like o’ him my very sell since T saw the great Doctor Samuel 
Johnson on his tower through Scotland, whilk tower is lying in 
my back-parlour for the amusement of my guests, wi’ the twa 
boards torn aff.” 

“ Tl>en the gentleman is a scholar, David ?” 

“ I ’se uphaud him a scholar,” answered David ; “ he has a 
black coat on, or a brown ane, at ony I'ate.” 

“ Is he a clergyman ?” 

“ I am thinking no, for he looked after his horse’s supper before 
he spoke o’ his ain,” replied mine host. 

“ Has he a servant ?” demanded I. 

“ Nae servant,” answered David ; “ but a grand face he has o’ 
his ain, that wad gar ony body be willing to serve him that looks 
upon him.” 

“ And what makes him think of disturbing me ? Ah, David, 
this has been some of your chattering ; you are perpetually 
bringing your guests on my shoulders, as if it were my business 
to entertain every man who comes to the George.” 

“ What the deil wad ye hae me do. Captain ?” answered mine 
host ; “ a gentleman lights down, and asks me in a most earnest 
manner, what man of sense and learning there is about our town, 
that can tell him about the antiquities of the place, and specially 
about the auld Abbey — ye wadna hae me tell the gentleman a lee"? 
and ye ken weel eneugh there is naebody in the town can say a 
reasonable word about it, be it no yoursell, except the bedral, and 


• There k more to be said about this old bridge hereafter. See Note C. 


rS^TKODUCTORY EWSTLE. 


^6 


Ji8 is as fou as a piper by this time. So, says I, there ’s Captain 
Clutterbuck, tliat ’s a very civil gentleman, and has little to do 
forby telling a’ the auld cracks about the Abbey, and dwells just 
hard by. Then says the gentleman to me, ^ Sir,’ says he, very 
civilly, ‘ have the goodness to step to Captain Clutterbuck Avith 
my compliments, and say I am a stranger, who have been led to 
these parts chiefly by the fame of these Ruins, and that I would 
call upon him, but the hour is late.’ And mair he said that I 
have forgotten, but I weel remember it ended, — ‘ And, landlord, 
get a bottle of your best sherry, and supper for two.’ — Ye wadna 
have had me refuse to do the gentleman’s bidding, and me a 
■publican 1” 

“ Well, David,” said I, “ I Avish your virtuoso had taken a fitter 
hour — but as you say he is a gentleman ” 

“ I ’se uphaud him that — the order speaks for itsell — a bottle 
of sherry — minched collops and a fowl — that’s speaking like 
a gentleman, I troAv ? — That ’s right. Captain, button Aveel up, 
the night’s raAV — but the Avater ’s cleai'ing for a’ that ; aa'c’II be 
on ’t neist night Avi’ my Lord’s boats, and Ave ’ll hae ill luck if I 
dinna send you a kipper to relish your ale at e’en.” * 

In five minutes after this dialogue, 1 found myself in the parlour 
of the George, and in the presence of the stranger. 

He Avas a grave personage, about my OAvn age, (Avhich Ave shall 
call about fifty,) and really had, as my friend David expressed it, 
sometliing in his face that inclined men to oblige and to serve 
him. Yet this expression of authority Avas not at all of the cast 
Avliich I have seen in the countenance of a general of brigade, 
neither Avas the stranger’s dress at all martial. It consisted of a 
uniform suit of iron-gi’ay clothes, cut in rather an old-fashioned 
form. His legs Avere defended Avith strong leathern gambadoes, 
Avhich, according to an antiquarian contrivance, opened at the 
sides, and Avere secured by steel clasps. His countenance Avas 
Avorn as much by toil and sorroAv as by ago, for it intimated that 
he had seen and endured much. His address Avas singularly 
pleasing and gentlemanlike, and the apology Avhich he made for 
disturbing me at such an hour, and in such a manner, was so well 
and handsomely expressed, that I could not reply otherwise than 
by declaring my Avillingness to be of service to him. 

“ I have been a traveller to-day, sir,” said he, “ and I would 

* The nobleman Avliose boats are mentioned in the text, is tlie late kind and 
amiable Lord Sommerville, an intimate friend of tlie author. David K.yle was a 
constant and privileged attendant when Lord Sommerville had a party for spearing 
salmon ; on such oecasions, eighty or a hundred fish were often killed between 
G learner and Leaderfoot. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE, 


55 

\villingly defer the little I have to say till after supper, for which 
I feel ratJier more appetized than usual.” 

We sate down to table, and notwithstanding the stranger’s 
alleged appetite, as well as the gentle preparation of cheese and 
ale which I had already laid aboard, I really believe that I of the 
two did the greater honour to my friend David’s fowl and minced 
collops. 

When the cloth was removed, and we had each made a tumbler 
of negus, of that liquor which hosts call Sherry, and guests call 
Lisbon, I perceived that the stranger seemed pensive, silent, and 
somewhat embarrassed, as if he had something to communicate 
which he knew not well how to introduce. To pave the way for 
him, I spoke of the ancient ruins of tlie Monastery, and of their 
history. But, to my great surprise, I found I had met my match 
with a witness. The stranger not only knew all that I could tell 
him, but a great deal more ; and, what was still more mortifying, 
he was able, by reference to dates, charters, and other evidence 
of facts, that, as Burns says, “ downa be disputed,” to correct 
many of the vague tales which I had adopted on loose and vulgar 
tradition, as well as to confute niore than one of my favourite 
theories on the subject of the old monks and their dwellings, 
which I had sported freely in all the presumption of superior 
information. And here I cannot but remark, that much of the 
stranger’s arguments and inductions rested upon the authority of 
Mr Deputy Register of Scotland, * and his lucubrations ; a gen- 
tleman whose indefatigable research into the national records is 
like to destroy ray trade, and that of all local antiquaries, by sub- 
stituting truth instead of legend and romance. Alas! I would the 
learned gentleman did but know how difficult it is for us dealei*a 
in petty wares of antiquity to — 

Pluck from our memories a rooted “ legend,” 

Raze out the written records of our brain, 

Or cleanse our bosoms of that perilous stuff — 

and so forth. It would, I am sure, move his pity to think how 
many old dogs he hath set to learn new tricks, how many vene- 
rable parrots he hath taught to sing a new song, how many gray 
heads ho hath addled by vain attempts to exchange their old 
Mumpsimus for his new S2mpsimus. But let it pass. Humana 
perpessi sumus — All changes round us, past, present, and to 
come ; that which was history yesterday becomes fable to-day, 
and the truth of to-day is hatched into a lie by to-mori’ow. 

* Thomas Thomson, Esq., whose well-deserved panegyric ought to be found 
on another page than one written by an intimate friend of thirty years’ standing. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


27 

Finding myself like to be overpowered in the Monastery, which 
I had hitherto regarded as my citadel, I began, like a skilful 
general, to evacuate that place of defence, and fight my way 
through the adjacent country. I had recourse to my acquaintance 
with the famihes and antiquities of the neighbourhood, ground on 
w'hich I thought I might skirmish at large without its being 
possible for the stranger to meet me with advantage. But I wr.a 
mistaken. 

The man in the iron-gray suit shewed a much more minute 
knowledge of these particulars than I had the least pretension to. 
He could tell the very year in which the family of De Haga first 
settled on their ancient bai*ony. * Not a Thane within reach but 
he knew his family and connections, how many of his ancestor? 
had fallen by the sword of the English, how many in domestic 
brawl, and how many by the hand of the executioner for march- 
treason. Their castles he was acquainted with from turret to 
foundation-stone ; and as for the miscellaneous antiquities scat- 
tered about the country, he knew every one of them, from a crom- 
lech to a cairn, and could give as good an account of each as if 
he had lived in the time of the Danes or Druids. 

I was now in the mortifying predicament of one who suddenly 
finds himself a scholar when he came to teach, and nothing was 
left for me but to pick up as much of his conversation as I could, 
for the benefit of the next company. I told, indeed, Allan 
Ramsay’s story of the IVIonk and Miller’s Wife, in order to retreat 
w'ith some honour under cover of a parting volley. Here, how- 
ever, my flank was again turned by the eternal stranger. 

‘‘ You are pleased to be facetious, sir,” said he ; “ but you 
cannot be ignorant, that the ludicrous incident you mentioned 
is the subject of a tale much older than that of Allan Ramsay.” 

I nodded, unwilling to aclmowledge my ignoi’ance, though, in 
fact, I knew no more what he meant than did one of my friend 
David’s post-horses. 

“ I do not allude,” continued my omniscient companion, “ to 
the cm’ious poem published by Pinkerton from the Maitland 
Manuscript, called the Fryars of Berwick, although it presents a 
very minute and amusing picture of Scottish manners during 
the reign of James V. ; byt rather to the Italian novelist, by 
whom, so far as I imow, the story was first printed, although 

* The family of De Haga, modernized into Haig, of Bemerside, is of the 
highest antiquity, and is the subject of one of the prophecies of Thomaa tho 
Rhymer ; — 

Betide, betide, wbate’er betide, 

Haig xiiJtii be Hjhg of Bemerside 


‘23 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


\inquestionably lie first took liis original from some ancient 
fabliau’^ * 

“ It is not to be doubted,” answered I, not very well under- 
standing, however, the proposition to which I gave such unqualified 
assent. 

Yet,” continued my companion, “ I question much, had you 
known my situation and profession, whether you would have 
pitched upon this precise anecdote for my amusement.” 

This observation he made in a tone of perfect good-humour. I 
pricked up my ears at the hint, and answered as politely as I 
could, that my ignorance of his condition and rank could be the 
only cause of my having stumbled on any thing disagreeable ; and 
that I was most willing to apologize for my unintentional offence, 
so soon as I should know wherein it consisted. 

“ Nay, no offence, sir,” he replied ; “ offence can only exist 
where it is taken. I have been too long accustomed to more 
severe and cruel misconstructions, to be offended at a popular jest, 
though directed at my profession.” 

“ Am I to understand, then,” I answered, “ that I am speaking 
with a Catholic clergyman V’ 

“ An unworthy monk of the order of Saint Benedict,” said the 
stranger, “ belonging to a community of your own countrymen, 
long established in France, and scattered unhappily by the events 
of the Revolution.” 

“ Then,” said I, “ you are a native Scotchman, and from this 
neighbourhood ?” 

“ Not so,” answered the monk ; “ I am a Scotchman by extrac- 
tion only, and never was in this neighbourhood during mv whole 
life.” 

“ Never in this neighbourhood, and yet so minutely acquainted 
with its history, its traditions, and even its external scenery ! You 
surprise me, sir,” I replied. 

“ It is not surprising,” he said, “ that I should have that sort 
of local information, when it is considered, that my uncle, an 
excellent man, as well as a good Scotchman, the head also of our 
religious community, employed much of his leisure in making me 
acquainted with these particulai’s ; and that I myself, disgusted 
with what has been passing around me, have for many years 
xunused myself, by digesting and arranging the various scraps of 

» It is curious to remark at how little expense of invention successive ages are 
content to receive amusement. The same story which Ramsay and Dunbar 
have successively handled, forms also the subject of the modem farce, No Song, 
no Supper. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 2D 

information which I derived from my worthy relative, and other 
aged brethren of our order.” 

“ I presume, sir,” said I, “ though I would by no means intrude 
the question, that you are now returned to Scotland with a view 
to settle amongst your countrymen, since the great political catas- 
trophe of our time has reduced your corps ?” 

“ No, sir,” replied the Benedictine, “ such is not my intention. 
A European potentate, who still cherishes the Catholic faith, has 
offered us a retreat within his dominions, where a few of my 
scattered brethren are already assembled, to pray to God for 
blessings on their protector, and pardon to their enemies. No 
one, I believe, will be able to object to us under our new establish- 
ment, that the extent of our revenues will be inconsistent with 
our vows of poverty and abstinence ; but, let us strive to be 
thankful to God, that the snare of temporal abundance is removed 
from us.” 

“ Many of your convents abroad, sir,” said I, “ enjoyed very 
handsome incomes — and yet, allowing for times, I question if 
any were better provided for than the Monastery of this village. 
It is said to have possessed nearly two thousand pounds in yearly 
money-rent, fourteen chalders and nine bolls of wheat, fifty-six 
chalders five bolls barley, forty-four chalders and ten bolls oats, 
capons and poultry, butter, salt, carriage and arriage, peats and 
kain, wool and ale.” 

“ Even too much of all these temporal goods, sir,” said my 
companion, “ which, though well intended by the pious donors, 
served only to make the establishment the envy and the prey of 
those by whom it was finally devoured.” 

“ In the meanwhile, however,” I observed, “ the monks had an 
easy life of it, and, as the old song goes, 

made glide kale 

On Fridays when they fasted.” 

“ I understand you, sir,” said the Benedictine ; “ it is difficult, 
saith the proverb, to carry a full cup without spilling. Unques- 
tionably the wealth of the community, as it endangered the safety 
of the establishment by exciting the cupidity of others, was also in 
frequent instances a snare to the brethren themselves. And yet 
we have seen the revenues of convents expended, not only in acts 
of beneficence and hospitality to individuals, but in works of 
general and permanent advantage to the world at large. The 
noble folio collection of French historians, commenced in 1737, 
under the inspection and at the expense of the community of 


so 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


Saint Maur, will long shew that the revenues of the Benedictines 
were not always spent in self-indulgence, and that the members 
of that order did not uniformly slumber in sloth and indolence, 
when they had discharged the formal duties of their rule.” 

As I knew nothing earthly at the time about the community of 
Saint Maur and their learned labours, I could only return a 
mumbling assent to this proposition. I have since seen this noble 
work in the library of a distinguished family, and I must own I 
am ashamed to reflect, that in so wealthy a country as ours, a 
similar digest of our historians should not be undertaken, under 
the patronage of the noble and the learned, in rivalry of that 
which the Benedictines of Paris executed at the expense of their 
own conventual funds. 

“ I perceive,” said the ex-Benedictine, smiling, “ that your 
heretical prejudices are too strong to allow us poor brethren any 
merit, whether literary or spiritual.” 

“ Far from it, sir,” said I ; " I assure you I have been much 
obliged to monks in my time. When I was quartered in a 
Monastery in Flanders, in the campaign of 1793, I never lived 
more comfortably in my life. They were jolly fellows the Flemish 
Canons, and right sorry was I to leave my good quarters, and to 
know that my honest hosts were to be at the mercy of the Sans- 
Culottes. 'Q\it fortune de la guerre I” 

The poor Benedictine looked down and was silent. I had 
unwittingly awakened a train of bitter reflections, or rather I had 
touched somewhat rudely upon a chord which seldom ceased to 
vibrate of itself. But he was too much accustomed to this sor- 
rowful train of ideas to suffer it to overcome him. On my part, 
I hastened to atone for my blunder. "If there wasany object 
of his journey to this country in which I could, witMproprietv. 
assist him, I begged to offer him my best services.’^! own I 
laid some little emphasis on the words “ with propriety,” as I felt 
it would ill become me, a sound Protestant, and a servant of 
government so far as my half-pay was concerned, to implicate 
myself in any recruiting which my companion might have under- 
taken in behalf of foreign seminaries, or in any similar design 
for the advancement of Popery, which, whether the Pope be 
actually the old lady of Babylon or no, it did not become me in 
any mauner to advance or countenance. 

My new friend hastened to relieve my indecision. " I was 
about to request your assistance, sir,” lie said, "in a matter 
which cannot but interest you as an antiquary, and a person of 
research. But I assure you it relates entirely to e’vents and per- 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


31 

Bonf? removed to the distance of two centuries and a half. I have 
experienced too much evil from the violent unsettlement of the 
country in which I was born, to be a rash labourer in the work 
of innovation in that of my ancestors.” 

I again assured him of my willingness to assist him in any 
thing that was not contrary to my allegiance or religion. 

“ My proposal,” he replied, ‘‘ affects neither. — May God bless 
the reigning family in Britain ! They are not, indeed, of that 
dynasty to restore which my ancestors struggled and suffered in 
vain ; but the Providence who has conducted his present Majesty 
to the throne, has given him the virtues necessary to his time — 
firmness and intrepidity — a true love of his country, and an 
enlightened view of the dangers by which she is surrounded. — 
For the religion of these realms, I am contented to hope that the 
great Power, whose mysterious dispensation has rent them from 
the bosom of the church, will, in his own good time and manner, 
restore them to its holy pale. The efforts of an individual 
obscure and humble as myself, might well retard, but could 
never advance, a work so mighty.” 

“ May I then inquire, sir,” said I, “ with what purpose you 
seek this country ?” 

Ere my companion replied, he took from his pocket a clasped 
paper book, about the size of a regimental orderly-book, full, as 
it seemed, of memoranda ; and drawing one of the candles dose 
to him, (for David, as a strong proof of his respect for the 
stranger, had indulged us with two,) he seemed to peruse the 
contents very earnestly. 

There is among the ruins of the western end of the Abbey 
church,” said he, looking up to me, yet keeping the memorandum- 
book half open, and occasionally glancing at it, as if to refresh 
his memory, “ a sort of recess or chapel beneath a broken arch, 
and in the immediate vicinity of one of those shattered Gothic 
columns which once supported the magnificent roof, whose fall 
has now encumbered that part of the building with its ruins.” 

« I think,” said I, “ that I know whereabouts you are. Is there 
not in the side wall of the chapel, or recess which you mention, 
a large carved stone, bearing a coat of arms, which no one 
hitherto has been able to decipher ?” 

“ You are right,” answered the Benedictine ; and again con- 
sulting his memoranda, he added, “the arms on the dexter 
side are those of Glendinning, being a cross parted by a cross 
indented and countercharged of the same ; and on the sinister 
three spur-rowels for tliosc of Avenel • they are two ancient 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


32 

families, now almost extinct in this country — the arms 'pari 5 
per pale.^^ 

" I think,” said I, “there is no part of this ancient structure 
with which you are not as well acquainted as was the mason who 
built it. But if your information be correct, ho who made out 
these bearings must have had better eyes than mine.” 

“ His eyes,” said the Benedictine, “ have long been closed in 
death ; probably when he inspected the monument it was in a 
more perfect state, or he may have derived his information from 
the tradition of the place.” 

“ I assure you,” said I, “ that no such tradition now exists. I 
have made several reconnoissances among the old people, in 
hopes to learn something of the armorial bearings, but I never 
heard of such a circumstance. It seems odd that you should 
have acquired it in a foreign land.” 

“ These ti'ifling particulars,” he replied, were formerly looked 
upon as more important, and they were sanctified to the exiles 
who retained recollection of them, because they related to a place 
dear indeed to memory, but which their eyes could never again 
beliold. It is possible, in like manner, that on the Potomac or 
.Susquehannah, you may find traditions current concerning places 
in England, which are utterly forgotten in the neighbom'hood 
where they originated. But to my pui*pose. In this recess, 
marked by the armorial bearings, lies buried a treasure, and 
it is in order to remove it that I have undertaken my present 
journey.” 

“ A treasure !” echoed I, in astonishment. 

“ Yes,” replied the monk, “ an inestimable treasure, for those 
who know how to use it rightly.” 

I own my ears dkl tingle a little at the w'ord treasure, and that 
a handsome tilbury, with a neat groom in blue and scarlet livery, 
having a smart cockade on his glazed hat, seemed as it were to 
glide across the room before my eyes, while a voice, as of a crier, 
pronounced in my ear, “ Captain Clutterbuck’s tilbury — drive 
up.” But I resisted the devil, and he fled from me. 

“ I believe,” said I, “ all hidden treasure belongs either to the 
king or the lord of the soil ; and as I have served his majesty, I 
cannot concern myself in any adventure which may have an end 
in the Court of Exchequer.” 

“ The ti’easure I seek,” said the stranger, smiling, “ will not 
be envied by princes or nobles, — it is simply the heart of an 
uj. right man.” 

Ah ! I understand you,” I answered j “ somo relic, forgotten 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


33 

in the confusion of the Reformation. I know the value which 
men of your persuasion put upon the bodies and limbs of saints. 
I have seen the Three Kings of Cologne.” 

The relics which I seek, howevei’,” said the Benedictine, 
“ arc not precisely of that nature. The excellent relative whom 
I have already mentioned, amused his leisure hours with putting 
into form the traditions of his family, particularly some remark- 
able circumstances which took place about the first breaking out 
of the schism of the church in Scotland. He became so much 
interested in his own labours, that at length he resolved that the 
heart of one individual, the hero of his tale, should rest no longer 
in a land of heresy, now deserted by all his kindred. As he 
knew where it was deposited, he formed the resolution to visit 
his native country for the purpose of recovering this valued 
relic. But age, and at length disease, interfered with his resolu- 
tion, and it was on his deathbed that he charged me to under- 
take the task in his stead, 'fhe various important events which 
have crowded upon each other, our ruin and our exile, have for 
many years obliged me to postpone this delegated duty. Why, 
indeed, transfer the relics of a holy and w'orthy man to a country, 
where religion and virtue are become the mockery of the scorner ? 
I have now' a home, w'hich I trust may be permanent, if any 
thing in this earth can be termed so. Thither will I transport 
the heart of the good father, and beside the shrine wdiich it shall 
occupy, I will construct my own grave.” 

“ He must, indeed, have been an excellent man,” replied I, 
“ whose memory, at so distant a period, calls forth such strong 
marks of regard.” 

“ He w'as, as you justly term him,” said the ecclesiastic, 
“ indeed excellent — excellent in his life and doctrine — excellent, 
above all, in his self-denied and disinterested sacrifice of all that 
life holds dear to principle and to friendship. But you shall 
read his history. I shall be happy at once to gratify your curio- 
sity, and to shew my sense of your kindness, if you will have tho 
goodness to procure me the means of accomplishing my object.” 

I replied to the Benedictine, that, as the rubbish amongst 
which he proposed to search was no part of the ordinary burial- 
ground, and as I was on the best terms with the sexton, I had 
little doubt that I could procure him the means of executing his 
pious purpose. 

With this promise w'e parted for the night ; and on the ensuing 
morning I made it my business to see the sexton, who, for a 
small gratuity, readily gi’anted permission of search, on condi- 
X, c 


S4 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


tion, however, that he should be present himself, to see that the 
stranger removed nothing of intrinsic value. 

“ To banes, and sloills, and hearts, if he can find ony, he sliaU 
be welcome,” said this guardian of the ruined Monastery, "there ’s 
plenty a* about, an he ’s curious of them ; but if there be ony 
picts ” (meaning perhaps pyx) “ or chalishes, or the like of such 
Popish veshells of gold and silver, deil hae me an I conneeve at 
tlieir being removed.” 

The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should take place 
at night, being unwilling to excite observation, or give rise to scandal . 

My new acquaintance and I spent tiie day as became lovers of 
hoar antiquity. We visited every comer of these magnificent 
ruins again and again during the forenoon ; and, having made a 
comfortable dinner at David’s, we walked in the afternoon to 
such places in the neighbourhood as ancient tradition or modern 
conjecture had rendered markworthy. Night found us in the 
interior of the ruins, attended by the sexton, who carried a dark 
lantern, and stumbling alternately over the graves of the dead, 
and the fragments of that architecture, " which, they doubtless 
trusted would have canopied their bones till doomsday.” 

I am by no means particularly superstitious, and yet there 
was that in the present service wliich I did not very much like. 
There wjis something awful in the resolution of disturbing, at 
such an hour, and in such a place, the still and mute sanctity of 
the grave. My companions w'ere free from this impression — 
the stranger from his energetic desire to execute the purpose for 
which he came — and the sexton from habitual indifference. 
We soon stood in the aisle, which, by the account of the Benedic- 
tine, contained the bones of the family of Glendinning, and w'ere 
busily employed in removing the rubbish from a corner which 
the stranger pointed out. If a half-pay Captain could have 
represented an ancient Border-knight, or an ex-Benedictine of 
the nineteenth century a wizard, monk of the sixteenth, we might 
have aptly enough personified the search after Michael Scott’s 
lamp and book of magic power. But the sexton would liave 
been de trap in the group.* 

* Tliis is one of those passages which must now read awkwardly, since every 
one knows that the Novelist and the author of the Lay of the Minstrel, is the 
fame person. But before the avowal was made, the author was forced into this 
and similar offences against good taste, to meet an argument, often repeated, 
that there wm something very mysterious in the Author of Waverley’s reserve 
concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author sufficiently voluminous at least. I had a 
great mind to remove the passages from this edition, but tbo more candid way is 
to explain how they came there. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


35 

Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, had been 
long at work, they came to some hewn stones, which seemed to 
have made part of a small shrine, though now displaced and 
destroyed, 

“ Let us remove these with caution, my friend,” said the 
stranger, ^‘lest we injure that which I come to seek,” 

“ They are prime stanes,” said the sexton, “ picked free every 
ane of them ; — warse than the best wad never serve the monks, 
I’se warrant.” 

A minute after he had made this observation, he exclaimed, 
“ I hae fund something now that stands again’ the spade, as if 
it were neither earth nor stane.” 

The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him. 

“ Na, na, haill o’ my ain,” said the sexton ; " nae halves or 
quarters — and he hfted from amongst the ruins a small leaden 
box. 

“ You will be disappointed, my friend,” said the Benedictine^ 
“ if you expect any thing tliere but the mouldering dust of a 
human heart, closed in an inner case of porphyry.” 

I mterposed as a neutral party, and taking tlie box from the 
sexton, reminded him, that if there were treasure concealed in it, 
still it could not become the property of tlie finder. I then pro- 
posed, that as the place was too dark to examine the contents of 
the leaden casket, w'e should adjourn to David’s, where we might 
liavc the advantage of light and fire while carrying on our inves- 
tigation. The stranger requested us to go before, assuring us 
that he would follow in a few minutes. 

I fancy that old Mattocks suspected these feAV minutes might 
be employed in effecting farther discoveries amongst the tombs, 
for ho glided back through a side-aisle to watch the Benedictine’s 
motions, but presently returned, and. told me in a whisper, that 
“Bie gentleman was on h’is knees amangthe cauld stanes, praying 
like ony saunt.” 

I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employed as Mat- 
tocks had informed me. The language seemed to be Latin ; and 
as the Avhispered, yet solemn accent, ghded away through the 
ruined aisles, I could not help reflecting how long it was since they 
had heard the forms of that religion, for the exercise of which they 
had been reared at such cost of time, taste, labour, and expense. 
« Come away, come away,” said 1 ; “ let us leave liim to himself. 
Mattocks ; tlifs is no business of ours.” 

" My certes, no. Captain,” said Mattocks ; " ne’ertheless, it 
wimia bo amiss to keep an ee on him. My father, rest his saul, 


36 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


\vas a liorsc-couper, and used to say lie never was cheated in a 
naig in his life, saving by a west-country whig frae Kilmai’nock, 
that said a grace ower a dram o’ whisky. But this gentleman 'wil! 
bo a Roman, I’se warrant ?” 

“ You are perfectly right in that, Saunders,” said I. 

“ Ay, I have seen twa or three of their priests that were chaso;d 
ower here some score o’ years syne. They just danced like mad 
when they looked on the friars’ heads, and the nuns’ heads, in the 
cloister yonder ; they took to them like auld acquaintance like. — 
Od, he is not stirring yet, mair than he were a through-stane ! * 
I never kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane — mair by token, 
he was the only ane in the town to ken — and that Avas auld Jock 
of the Pend. It wad hae been lang ere ye fand Jock praying in 
the Abbey in a thick night, Avi’ his knees on a cauld stane. Jock 
likit a kirk wi’ a chimley in ’t. Mony a merry ploy I hae had Avi’ 
him doAvn at the inn yonder ; and Avhen he died, decently I Avad 
hae earded him ; but, or I gat his gra\"e Aveel hoAvkit, some of the 
quality, that Avere o’ his ain unhappy persuasion, had the corpse 
Avhirried aAA'ay up the Avater, and buried him after their ain plea- 
sure, doubtless — they kend best. I Avad hae made nae great 
charge. I Avadna hae excised J ohnnie, dead or alive. — Stay, see 
' — the strange gentleman is coming.” 

“ Hold the lantern to assist him. Mattocks,” said I . — “ This is 
rough AA'alking, sir.’’ 

“ Yes,” replied the Benedictine ; "I may say Avith a poet, avIio 
is doubtless familiar to you ” 

I should be surprised if he Avere, thought I internally. 

The stranger continued : 

“ Saint Francis be mj' speed ! Iioav oft to-niglit 
Have my old feet stumbled at graves !” 

“We are now clear of the churchyard,” said I, “and have but 
a short Avalk to David’s, Avhere I hope Ave shall find a cheerful fire 
to enliven us after our night’s AA'ork,” 

We entered, accordingly, the little parlour, into Avhich Mattocks 
was also about to push himself Avith sufficient effrontery, Avhen 
David, Avith a most astounding oath, expelled him by head and 
shoulders, d — ning his curiosity, that AA'ould not let gentlemen be 
private in their OAvn inn. Apparently mine host considered his 
OAvn presence as no intrusion, for he croAvded up to the table on 
which I had laid doAvn the leaden box. It A\'as frail and AA'asted, 
as might be guessed, from liaAung lain so many years in the 


* A tombstone. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 37 

ground. On opening it, we found deposited within, a case made 
of porpliyry, as the stranger had announced to us. 

“ I fancy,” lie said, "gentlemen, your curiosity will not be 
satisfied, — perhaps I should say that your suspicions will not be 
removed, — unless I undo this casket ; yet it only contains the 
mouldering remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest 
thoughts.” 

He undid the box with great caution ; but the shrivelled sub- 
stance which it contained bore now no resemblance to what it 
might once have been, the means used having been apparently 
unequal to preserve its shape and colour, although they were 
adequate to prevent its total decay. We were quite satisfied, not- 
withstanding, that it was, what the stranger asserted, the remains 
of a human heart ; and David readily promised his influence in 
the village, which was almost co-ordinate with that of the bailie 
himself, to silence all idle rumours. He was, moreover, pleased 
to favour us with his company to supper ; and having taken the 
lion’s share of two bottles of sherry, he not only sanctioned with 
his plenary authority the stranger’s removal of the heart, but, I 
believe, would have authorized the removal of the Abbey itself, 
were it not that it happens considerably to advantage the worthy 
publican’s own custom. 

The object of the Benedictine’s visit to the land of his foi’c- 
fathers being now accomplished, he announced his intention of 
leaving us early in the ensuing day, but requested my company to 
breakfast with him before his departure. I came accordingly, and 
w'hen we had finished our morning’s meal, the priest took me 
apart, and pulling from his pocket a large bundle of papers, he 
})ut them into my hands. “ These,” said he, " Captain Clutter- 
buck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century, and e.xhibit 
in a singular, and, as I think, an interesting point of view, the 
manners of that period. I am induced to believe that their pub- 
lication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public ; 
and I willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue from 
such a transaction.” 

1 stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, that the 
hand seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manu- 
script. 

" Do not mistake me, sir,” said the Benedictine ; " I did not 
mean to say the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, 
but only, that they were compiled from authentic materials of 
that period, but written in the taste and language of the present 
day. My uncle commenced this book j and 1, partly to im- 


38 INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 

prove my habit of English composition, partly to divert melan* 
choly thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing and 
concluding it. You will see the period of the story where my 
uncle leaves off his narrative, and I commence mine. In fact, 
tliey relate in a great measure to different persons, as well as to 
a different period. 

Retaining the papers in my hand, I proceeded to state to him 
my doubts, whether, as a good Protestant, I could undertake or 
superintend a publication written probably in the spirit of Popery. 

“ You will find,” he said, " no matter of controversy in these 
sheets, nor any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in 
all persuasions will not be willing to join. I remembered I was 
writing for a land unhappily divided from the Catholic faith ; and 
I have taken care to say nothing which, justly interpreted, could 
give ground for accusing me of partiality. But if, upon collating 
my narrative with the proofs to winch I refer you — for you will 
find copies of many of the original papers in that parcel — you 
are of opinion that I have been partial to my own faith, I freely 
give you leave to correct my errors in that respect. I own, how- 
ever, I am not conscious of this defect, and have rather to fear 
that the Catholics may be of opinion, tliat I have mentioned cir- 
cumstances respecting the decay of discipline which preceded, 
and partly occasioned, the great schism, called by you the Refor- 
mation, over which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed, 
tliis is one reason why I choose the papers should appear in a 
foreign land, and pass to the press through the hands of a 
stranger.” ^ 

To this I had no tiling to reply, unless to object my own in- 
competency to the task the good father was desirous to impose 
upon me. On this subject he was pleased to say more, I fear, 
than his Imowledge of me fuUy warranted — more, at any rate, 
than my modesty will permit me to record. At length he ended, 
with advising me, if I continued to feel the diffidence which I 
stated, to apply to some veteran of literatime, whose experience 
might supply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we parted, 
with mutu^ expressions of regard, and I have never since heard 
of him. 

After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus 
singularly conferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the 
most inexplicable fits of yawning, I at length, in a sort of despair, 
communicated them to our village club, from whom they found a 
more favourable reception than the unlucky conformation of my 
nerv'es had been able to afford them. They unanimously pro- 


r 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 39 

nounced the work to be exceedingly good, and assured me I 
would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our flourishing 
village, if I should suppress what threw such an interesting and 
radiant light upon the liistory of the ancient Monastery of Saint 
Mary. 

At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I became 
dubious of my own ; and, indeed, when I heard passages read 
forth by the sonorous voice of our worthy pastor, I was scarce 
more tired than I have felt myself at some of his own sermons. 
Such, and so great is the difference betwixt reading a thing one's 
self, making toilsome way through all the difficulties of manu- 
script, and, as the man says in the play, “ having the same read 
to you — it is positively like being wafted over a creek in a 
boat, or wading through it on your feet, with the mud up to your 
knees. Still, however, there remained the great difficulty of 
finding some one who could act as editor, correcter at once of the 
press and of the language, which, according to the schoolmaster, 
was absolutely necessary. 

Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a king, 
never was an honour so bandied about. The parson would not 
leave the quiet of his chimney-corner — tlie bailie pleaded the 
dignity of his situation, and the approach of the great annual fair, 
as reasons against going to Edinburgh to make arrangements for 
printing the Benedictine’s manuscript. The schoolmaster alone 
seemed of malleable stuff ; and, desirous perhaps of emulating 
the fame of Jedediah Cleishbotham, evinced a wish to undertake 
this momentous commission. But a remonstrance from three 
opulent farmers, whose sons he had at bed, board, and schooling, 
for twenty pounds per annum a-head, came like a frost over the 
blossoms of his literary ambition, and he was compelled to decline 
the service. 

In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the advice of our 
little council of war, notliing doubting you will not be disinclined 
to take the duty upon you, as it is much connected with that in 
which you have distinguished yourself. What I request is, that 
you will review, or rather revise and correct, the enclosed packet, 
and prepare it for the press, by such alterations, additions, and 
curtailments, as you think necessary. Forgive my hinting to 
you, that the deepest well may be exhausted, — the best corps of 
grenadiers, as our old general of brigade expressed himself, may 
be med up. A few hints can do you no harm ; and, for the 
prize-money, let the battle be first won, and it shall be parted at 
the drum-head. I hope you will take nothing amiss that I have 


40 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


said. I am a plain soldier, and little accustomed to compliments 
I may add, that T should be well contented to march in the front 
with you — that is, to put my name with yours on the title-page. 
1 have the honour to be. 

Sir, 

Your unknown humble Servant, 

CuTHBERT ClUTTERBUCE 

V'JIXAGE OP KeNKAQUHAUI, 

0 / April, 18 


for the Author of “ Wavcrlry'' 4<j. 
care of Mr John BaUantyne, 
Hanover Street, Edinburgh. 


ANSWER 


BV 

“ THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY,'’ 

TO THE 

FOREGOING LETTER 

FROM 

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK. 


Dear Captain, 

Do not admire, that, notwithstanding the distance and cere- 
mony of your address, I return an answer in tiie terms of fami- 
liarity. The truth is, your origin and native country are better 
known to me than even to yourself. You derive your respectable 
parentage, if I am not gi’eatly mistaken, from a land which has 
afforded much pleasure, as well as profit, to those who have 
traded to it successfully, — I mean that part of the terra incognita 
which is called the province of Utopia. Its productions, though 
censured by many (and some who use tea and tobacco without 
scruple) as idle and unsubstantial luxuries, have nevertheless, 
like many other luxuries, a general acceptation, and are seci’etly 
enjoyed even by those who express the greatest scorn and dislike 
of them in public. The di’am-drinker is often the first to bo 
shocked at the smell of spirits — it is not unusual to hear old 
maiden ladies declaim against scandal — the private book-cases 
of some grave-seeming men would not brook decent eyes — and 
many, I say not of the wise and learned, but of those most 
anxious to seem such, when the spring-lock of their library is 
drawn, their velvet cap nulled over their ears, their feet insi 
nuated into their turkey slippers, are to be found, were their 
retreats suddenly inti'udcd upon, busily engaged with the last 
uew novel. 


42 


ANSWER TO THE 


I have said, the truly wise and learned disdain these shifts, and 
will open the said novel as avowedly as they would the lid of 
their snuff-box. I will only quote one instance, though I know 
a hundred. Did you know the celebrated Watt of Birmingham, 
Captain Clutterbuck ? I believe not, tliough, from what I am 
about to state, he would not have failed to have sought an 
acquaintance with you. It was only once my fortune to meet 
him, whether in body or in spirit it matters not. There were 
assembled about half-a-score of our Northern Lights, who had 
amongst them. Heaven knows how, a well known character of 
your country, Jedecliah Cleishbotham. This worthy person, 
having come to Edinburgh during the Christmas vacation, had 
become a sort of lion in the place, and was led in leash from 
house to house along with the guisards, the stone-eater, and other 
amusements of the season, which “ exhibited their unparalleled 
feats to private family-parties, if required.” Amidst this com- 
pany stood Mr Watt, the man whose genius discovered the means 
of multiplying our national resources to a degree perhaps even 
beyond his own stupendous powers of calculation and combination ; 
bringing the treasures of the abyss to the summit of the earth — 
giving the feeble arm of man the momentum of an Afrite — com- 
manding manufactures to arise, as the rod of the prophet produced 
water in the desert — affording the means of dispensing with that 
time and tide which wait for no man, and of sailing without that 
wind which defied the commands and threats of Xerxes himself.* 
This potent commander of the elements — this abridger of time 
and space — this magician, whose cloudy machinery has produced 
a change on the world, the effects of which, extraordinary as they 
are, are perhaps only now beginning to be felt — was not only the 
most profound man of science, the most successful combiner of 
powers and calculator of numbers as adapted to practical pur- 
poses, — was not only one of the most generally well-informed, 

but one of the best and kindest of human beings. 

There he stood, surrounded by the little band I have men- 
tioned of Northern literati, men not less tenacious, generally 
speaking, of their own fame and their own opinions, than the 
national regiments are supposed to be^ jealous of the high charac- 

* Probably the ingenious author alludes to the national adage : 

The king said sail, 

But the wind said no. 

Our schoolmaster (who is also a land-surveyor) thinks this whole passage 
refers to Mr Watt’s improvements on the steam-engine.— iVofc Iv Captai;i 
C lUlTKBBUCK. 


INTBODDCTOBY EPISTLE. 


43 

ter which they have won upon ser’sdce. Methinks I yet see and 
hear what I shall never see or hear again. In his eighty-fifth 
year, the alert, kind, benevolent old man, had his attention alive 
to every one’s question, his information at every one’s command. 
His talents and fancy overflowed on every subject. One 
gentleman was a deep philologist, — he talked with him on the 
origin of the alphabet as if he had been coeval with Cadmus ; 
another a celebrated critic, — you would have said the old man 
had studied political economy and belles-lettres all his life, — of 
science it is unnecessary to speak, it was his own distinguished 
walk. And yet. Captain Clutterbuck, when he spoke with your 
countrynaan Jedediah Cleishbotham, you would have sworn he 
had been coeval with Claver’se and Burley, with the persecutors 
and perse||iited, and could number every shot the dragoons had 
fired at the fugitive Covenanters. In fact, we discovered that no 
novel of the least celebrity escaped his perusal, and that the gifted 
man of science was as much addicted to the productions of your 
native country, (the land of Utopia aforesaid,) in other words, as 
shameless and obstinate a peruser of novels, as if he had been a 
very milliner’s apprentice of eighteen. I know little apology for 
troubling you with these things, excepting the desire to com- 
memorate a delightful evening, and a wish to encourage you to 
shake off that modest diffidence which makes you afraid of being 
supposed connected with the fairy-land of delusive fiction. I will 
requite your tag of verse, from Horace himself, with a paraphrase 
for your own use, my dear Captain, and for that of your country 
club, excepting in reverence the clergyman and schoolmaster : — 

Ne sit anciUce tibi amor pudori, 

Take thou no scom. 

Of fiction born. 

Fair fiction’s muse to woo ; 

Old Homer’s theme 
Was but a dream, 

Himself a fiction too. 

Having told you your country, I must next, my dear Captain 
Clutterbuck, make free to mention your own immediate descent. 
You are not to suppose youy land of prodigies so little known to 
us as the careful concealment of your origin would seem to imply. 
But you have it in common with many of your country, studi- 
ously and anxiously to hide any connection witli it. There is 
this difference, indeed, betwixt your countrymen and those of our 
more material world, that many of the most estimable of them, 


ANSWER TO THE 


^'4 

Biicli as an old Higliland gentleman called Ossian, a monk of 
Bristol called Rowley, and others, are inclined to pass themselves 
off as denizens of the land of reality, whereas most of our fellow- 
citizens who deny their country are such as that country would he 
very willing to disclaim. The especial circumstances you mention 
relating to your life and services, impose not upon us. We know 
the versatility of the unsubstantial species to which you belong per- 
mits them to assume all manner of disguises ; we have seen them 
apparelled in the caftan of a Persian, and the silken robe of a 
Chinese,* and are prepared to suspect their real character under 
every disguise. But how can we be ignorant of your country and 
manners, or deceived by the evasion of its inhabitants, when the 
voyages of discovery which have been made to it rival in number 
those recorded by Purchas or by Hackluyt And ^ shew the 
skill and perseverance of your navigators and travellers, we have 
only to name Sindbad, Aboulfouaris, and Robinson Crusoe. 
These were the men for discoveries. Could we have sent Cap- 
tain Greenland to look out for the north-west passage, or Peter 
Wilkins to examine Baffin’s Bay, what discoveries might we not 
have expected ? But there are feats, and these both numerous 
and extraordinary, performed by the inhabitants of your country, 
which we read without once attempting to emulate. 

I wiuider from my purpose, whicli w^as to assure you, that I 
know you as well as the mother who did not bear you, for 
MacDufF’s peculiarity sticks to your whole race. You are not 
l)orn of woman, unless, indeed, in that figurative sense, in which 
tlie celebrated Maria Edgeworth may, in her state of single 
blessedness, be termed mother of the finest family in England. 
You belong, sir, to the Editors of the land of Utopia, a sort of 
persons for whom I have the highest esteem. How is it possible 
it should be otherwise, when you reckon among your corporation 
the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli, the short-faced president of the 
Spectator’s Club, poor Ben Silton, and many others, who have 
acted as gentlemen-ushers to works which have cheered our 
heaviest, and added Avings to our lightest hours ? 

What I have remarked as peculiar to Editors of the class in 
which I venture to enrol you, is the Jjappy combination of fortui- 
tous circumstances which usually put you in possession of the 
works which you have the goodness to bring into public notice, 

* See The Persian Letters, and The Citizen of the World. 

•j- See Les Voyages Imaginaires. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


45 


One walks on the sea-shore, and a wave casts on land a small 
cylindrical trunk or casket, containing a manuscript much 
damaged with sea-water, which is with difficulty deciphered, and 
so forth.* Another steps into a chandler’s shop, to purchase a 
pound of butter, and, behold I the waste-paper on which it is laid 
is the manuscript of a cabalist.f A third is so fortunate as to 
obtain from a woman who lets lodgings, the curious contents of 
an antique bureau, the property of a deceased lodger.J All tliese 
arc certainly possible occurrences ; but I know not how, they 
seldom occur to any Editors save those of your country. At 
least I can answer for myself, that in my solitary walks by the 
sea, I never saw it cast ashore any thing but dulse and tangle, 
and now and then a deceased star-fish ; my landlady never pre- 
sented me with any manuscript save her cursed bill ; and the 
most interesting of my discoveries in the way of waste-paper, 
was finding a favourite passage of one of my own novels wrapt 
round an ounce of snuff. No, Captain, the funds from which 
I have drawn my power of amusing the public, have been bought 
otlierwise than by fortuitous adventure. I have buried myseli 
in libraries, to extract from the nonsense of ancient days new 
nonsense of my own. I have turned over volumes, which, from 
the pot-hooks I was obliged to decipher, might have been the 
cabalistic manuscripts of Cornelius Agrippa, although I never saw 
“ the door open and the devil come in.”§ But all the domestic 
inhabitants of the libraries were disturbed by the vehemence of 
my studies ; — 


From my research the boldest spider fled, 

And moths, retreating, trembled as I read. 

From this learned sepulchre I emerged like the Magician in 
the Persian Tales, from his twelvemonth’s residence in the 
mountain, not like him to soar over the heads of the multitude, 
but to mingle in the crowd, and to elbow amongst the throng, 
making my way from the highest society to the lowest, undei'going 
the scorn, or, what is harder to brook, the patronizing conde- 
scension of the one, and enduring the vulgar familiarity of the 
other, — and all, you will say, for what? — to collect materials for 
one of those manusci'ipts with which mere chance so often accom- 

* See the Ilistory of Automath^. . 
f Adventures of a Guinea. 
t Adventures of an Atom. 

5 See Southey’s Ballad on the Young Man who read in n Conjuror's Boohs.' 


46 


ANSWER TO THE ' 


modates your countrymen ; in other words, to write a successful 
novel. — “0 Athenians, how hard we labour to deserve your 
praise !” 

I might stop here, my dear Clutterbuck ; it would have a 
touching effect, and the air of proper deference to our dear 
Public. But I will not be false with you, — (though falsehood is 
— excuse the observation — the current coin of your country,) the 
truth is, I have studied and lived for the purpose of gratifying my 
own curiosity, and passing my own time ; and though the result 
has been, tliat, in one shape or other, I have been frequently 
before the Public, perhaps more frequently than prudence war- 
ranted, yet I cannot claim from them the favour due to those 
who have dedicated their ease and leisure to the improvement 
and entertainment of others. 

Having communicated thus freely with you, my dear Captain, 
it follows, of course, that I will gratefully accept of your com- 
munication, which, as your Benedictine observed, divides itself 
both by subject, manner, and age, into two parts. But I am 
sorry I cannot gratify your literary ambition, by suffering your 
name to appear upon the title-page ; and I will candidly tell you 
the reason. 

The Editors of your country are of such a soft and passive 
disposition, that they have frequently done themselves great dis- 
gi’ace by giving up the coadjutors who first brought them into 
public notice and public favour, and suffering their names to be 
used by those quacks and impostors who live upon the ideas of 
others. Thus I shame to tell how the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli 
was induced by one Juan Avellaneda to play the Turk with the 
Ingenious Miguel Cervantes, and to publish a Second Part of the 
adventures of his hei*o the renowned Don Quixote, without the 
knowledge or co-operation of his principal aforesaid. It is true, 
the Arabian sage returned to his allegiance, and thereafter com- 
posed a genuine continuation of the Knight of La Mancha, in 
which the said Avellaneda of Tordesillas is severely chastised. 
For in this you pseudo-editors resemble the juggler’s disciplined 
ape, to which a sly old Scotsman likened James I., ‘‘ if you have 
Jackoo in your hand, you can make him bite me; if I have 
Jackoo in my hand, I can make him bite you.” Yet, not^^dth- 
sfeinding the amende honorable thus made by Cid Hamet Benen- 
geli, his temporary defection did not the less occasion the decease 
of tlie ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote, if he can be said to die, 
whose memory is immortal. Cervantes put him to death, lest he 


INTRODUCTOEY EPISTLE. 47 

should again fall into bad hands. Awful, yet just consequence of 
Cid Hamet’s defection ! 

To quote a more modem and much less important instance. 1 
am sorry to observe my old acquaintance Jedediah Cleishbotham 
has misbehaved himself so far as to desert his original patron, and 
set up for himself. I am afraid the poor pedagogue will make 
little by his new allies, unless the pleasure of entertaining the 
public, and, for aught I know, the gentlemen of the long robe, 
with disputes about his identity. * Observe, therefore, Captain 
Clutterbuck, that, wdse by these great examples, I receive you as 
a partner, but a sleeping partner only. As I give you no title to 
employ or use the firm of the copartnery we are about to form, I 
will announce my property in my title-page, and put my own 
mark on my own chattels, which the attorney tells me it will be 
a crime to counterfeit, as much as it would to imitate the auto- 
graph of any other empiric — a crime amounting, as advertise- 
ments upon little vials assure to us, to nothing short of felony. If, 
therefore, my dear friend, your name should hereafter appear in 
any title-page without mine, readers will know what to think oi 
you. I scorn to use either arguments or threats ; but you cannot 
but be sensible, that, as you owe your literary existence to me on 
the one hand, so, on the other, your very all is at my disposal. I 
can at pleasure cut off your annuity, strike your name from the 
half-pay establishment, nay, actually put you to death, without 
being answerable to any one. These are plain words to a gentle- 
man who has served during the whole war ; but, I am aware, you 
will take nothing amiss at my hands. 

And now, my good sir, let us address ourselves to our task, and 
arrange as we best can the manuscript of your Benedictine, so as 
to suit the taste of this critical age. You will find I have made 
very liberal use of his permission, to alter whatever seemed too 
favourable to the Church of Rome, which I abominate, were it 
but for her fasts and penances. 

* I am since more correctly informed, that Mr Cleishbotham died some months 
since at Gandercleugh, and that the person assuming his name is an impostor. 
The real Jedediali made a most Christian and edifying end ; and, as I am 
credibly informed, having sent for a Cameronian clergyman when he was in 
extremis, was so fortunate as to convince the good man, that, after all, he had no 
wish to bring dowTi on the scattered remnant of Mountain folks, “ the bonnets 
of Bonny Dundee.” Hard that the speculators in print and paper will not allow 
a good man to rest quiot in his grave ! 

This note, and the passages in the text, were occasioned by a London book- 
seller having printed, as a speculation, an additional collection of Tales of My 
Landlord, which was not so fortunate as to succeed in passing on the world as 
genuine. 


48 ANSWER TO THE INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 

Oiu’ reader is doubtless impatient, and we must own, with John 
Bunyan, 

We have too long detain’d him in the porch, 

And kept him from the sunshine with a torch. 

Adieu, therefore, my dear Captain — remember me respectfully 
to the parson, the schoolmaster, and the bailie, and all friends of 
the happy club in the village of Kennaquhair. I have never seen, 
and never shall see, one of their faces ; and notwithstanding, 1 
believe that as yet I am better acquainted with them than any 
other man who lives. — I shall soon introduce you to my jocund 
friend, Mr John Ballantyne of Trinity Grove, whom you will find 
warm from his match at single-stick with a brother Publisher. * 
Peace to their differences ! It is a wrathful trade, and the irrt- 
tahile genus comprehends the bookselling as well as the book- 
writing species. — Once more adieu ! 

The Author of Waverley. 

* In consequence of the pseudo Tales of My Landlord printed in London, as 
already mentioned, the late Mr John Ballantyne, the autlior’s publisher, liad a 
eontroversy with the interloping bibliopolist, each insisting that his Jodcdiah 
Cleishbotham was tho real Simon Pure. 



0 ay ! the Monks, the Monks they did the mischief I 
Theirs all the grossness, all the superetition 

0£ a most gross and superstitious age — 

May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest 
And scatter’d all these pestilential vapours! 

Hut that we owed them all to yonder Harlot 
Tlironed on the seven hills with her cup of gold, 

1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir lioger. 

That old Moll AVliite took wing with cat and broomstick. 

And raised the last night’s tiiunder. 

Old Play. 

The village described in the Benedictine’s manuscript by the 
name of Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic termination which 
occurs in Traquhair, Caquhair, and other compounds. Thfe, 
learned Chalmers derives this w'ord Quhair, from the winding 
course of a stream ; a definition which coincides, in a remarkable 
degree, with the serpentine turns of the river Tweed near the 
village of wduch w’o speak. It has been long famous for the 
splendid Monastery of Saint Mary, founded by David the First of 
Scotland, in whose reign were formed, in the same county, the no 
less splendid establishments of Meh’ose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. 
The donations of land with which the King endowed these wealthy 
fraternities procured hini from the j\Ionkish historians the epithet 
of Saint, and from one of his impoverished descendants the 
splenetic censure, “ that he had been a sore saint for the Crowm.” 

It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, who was a wise 
as w'ell as a pious monarch, w'as’ not moved solely by religious 
motives to those great acts of munificence to the church, but 
annexed political views to his pious generosity. His possessions 
in Northumberland and Cumberland became pi’ecarious after the 
loss of the Battle of the Standard ; and since the comparatively 
fertile valley of Teviotdale was likely to become the frontier of 
his kingdom, it is probable he wished to secure at least a part of 
those valuable possessions by placing them in the hands of the 
monks, whose property was for a long time I’espectcd, even amidst 
X. * D 


THE MONASTERY, 


50 

the rage of a frontier war. In this manner alone had the King 
some chance of ensuring protection and security to the cultivators 
of the soil ; and, in fact, for several ages the possessions of these 
Abbeys were each a sort of Goshen, enjoying the calm light of 
peace and immunity, while the rest of the country, occupied by 
wild clans and marauding barons, was one dark scene of confusion, 
blood, and uni’cmitted outrage. 

But these immunities did not continue down to the union of the 
crowns. Long before that period the wars betwixt England and 
Scotland had lost their original character of international hosti- 
lities, and had become on the part of the English a struggle for 
subjugation, on that of the Scots a desperate and infuriated 
defence of their liberties. This introduced on both sides a degree 
of fury and animosity unknown to the earlier period of their his- 
tory ; and as religious scruples soon gave way to national hatred 
spurred by a love of plunder, tlie patrimony of the Church was no 
longer sacred from incursions on either side. Still, however, the 
tenants and vassals of the great Abbeys had many advantages 
over those of the lay barons, who were harassed by constant 
military duty, until they became desperate, and lost all relish for 
the arts of peace. The vassals of the church, on the other hand, 
were only liable to be called to arms on general occasions, and at 
other times were permitted in comparative quiet to possess their 
farms and feus.* They of course exhibited superior skill in every 
thing that related to the cultivation of the soil, and were therefore 
both wealthier and better informed than the military retainers of 
the restless chiefs and nobles in their neighbourhood. 

The residence of these church vassals was usually in a small 
village or hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual aid and protec- 
tion, some thirty or forty families dwelt together. This was 
called the Town, and the land belonging to the various families 
by whom the Town was inhabited, was called the Township. 
They usually possessed the land in common, though in various 
proportions, according to their several grants. The part of the 
Township properly arable, and kept as such continually tmder the 
plough, was called in-field. Here the use of quantities of manure 
supplied in some degree the exhaustion of the soil, and the feuars 
raised tolerable oats and bear,f usually sowed on alternate ridges, 
on which the labour of the whole community was bestowed with- 
out distinction, the produce being divided after harvest, agreeably 
to their respective interests. 

There was, besides, out-field land, from which it was thought 
possible to extract a crop now and then, after which it was 

* Small possessions conferred upon vassals and their heirs, held for a sma ll 
quit-rent, or a moderate proportion of the produce. This was a favourite manner, 
by which the churchmen peopled the patrimony of their convents ; and many 
descendants of such fe.uar$, as they are called, are still to be found in possession 
of their family inheritances in the neighbouriiood of the great Monasteries of 
Scotland. 

t Or bigg. 


THE MONASTERY. 




abandoned to the “ skiey influences,” until the exhausted powers of 
vegetation were restored. These out-field spots were selected by 
any feuar at his own choice, amongst the sheep-wallis and hills 
which were always annexed to the Township, to serve as pastu- 
rage to the community. The trouble of cultivating these patches 
of out-field, and the precarious chance that the crop would pay 
the labour, were considered as giving a right to any feuar, wdio 
chose to undertake the adventm’e, to tlie produce which might 
result from it. 

There remained the pasturage of extensive moors, where tlio 
valleys often afibrded good grass, and upon which the w'hole cattle 
belonging to the community fed indiscriminately during the sum- 
mer, under the charge of the Town-herd, who regularly drove 
them out to pasture in tlie morning, and brought them back at 
night, without which precaution they would have fallen a speedy 
prey to some of the Snatchers in the neighbourhood. These are 
things to make modern agriculturists hold up their hands and 
stare ; but the same mode of cultivation is not yet entirely in 
desuetude in some distant parts of North Britain, and may bo 
witnessed in full force and exercise in the Zetland Archipelago. 

The habitations of the church-feuars -were not less primitive 
than their agriculture. In each village or Town were several 
small towers, having battlements projecting over the side-walls, 
and usually an advanced angle or two with shot-holes for flanking 
the door-way, wliich w’as always defended by a strong door of oak, 
studded with nails, and often by an exterior grated door of iron. 
These small peel-houses were ordinarily inhabited by the principal 
feuars and their families; but, upon the alarm of approaching 
danger, the whole inhabitants tlironged from their own miserable 
cottages, which were situated around, to garrison these points of 
defence. It was tlicn no easy matter for a hostile party to pene- 
trate into the village, for the men were habituated to the use of 
bows and fire-arms, and the towers being generally so placed, that 
the discharge from one crossed that of another, it was impossible 
to assault any of them individually. 

The interior of tliese houses w'as usually sufficiently wretched, 
for it would have been folly to have furnished them in a manner 
which could excite the avarice of their lawless neighbom’s. Yet 
the families themselves exhibited in their appearance a degree of 
comfort, information, and independence, which could hardly have 
been expected. Their in-field supplied them with bread and 
home-brewed ale, their herds and floclcs with beef and mutton, 
(the extravagance of killing lambs or calves was never thought 
of.) Each family killed a mart, or fat buUock, in November, 
wliich was salted up for winter use, to which the goodwife could, 
upon great occasions, add a dish of pigeons or a fat capon, — tlie 
ill-cultivated garden afforded "laug-cale,” — and the river gave 
salmon to serve as a relish during the season of Lent. 

Of fuel they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf ; and the 


THE MONASTERY. 


52 

remains of the abused woods continued to give them logs foT 
burning, as well as timber for the usual domestic purposes. In 
addition to these comforts, the goodraan would now and then 
sally forth to the greenwood, and marie down a buck of season 
with his gun or his cross-bow ; and the Father Confessor seldom 
refused him absolution for the trespass, if duly invited to take his 
share of the smoking haunch. Some, still bolder, made, either 
with their own domestics, or by associating themselves with the 
moss-troopers, in the language of shepherds, “ a start and ower- 
loup and the golden ornaments and silken head-gear worn by 
the females of one or two families of note, were invidiously traced 
by their neighbours to such successful excursions. This, however, 
was a more inexpiable crime in the eyes of the Abbot and Com- 
munity of Saint Mary’s, than the borrowing one of the “ gude 
king’s deer and they failed not to discountenance and punish, 
by every means in their power, offences which were sure to lead 
to sovei’e retaliation upon the property of the church, and which 
tended to alter the character of their peaceful vassalage. 

As for the information possessed by those dependents of the 
Abbacies, they might have been truly said to be better fed than 
taught, even though their fare had been worse than it was. Still, 
however, they enjoyed opportunities of Icnowledge from which 
others were excluded. The Monks were in general well acquainted 
with their vassals and tenants, and familiar in the families of the 
better class among them, where they were sure to be received 
with the I’espeet due to their twofold character of spiritual father 
and secular landlord. Thus it often happened, when a boy dis- 
played talents and inclination for study, one of the brethren, with 
a view to his being bred to the church, or out of good-nature, in 
order to ])ass away his own idle time, if he had no better motive, 
initiated him into the mysteries of reading and writing, and 
imparted to him such other knowledge as lie himself possessed. 
And the heads of these allied families, having more time for 
reflection, and more skill, as well as stronger motives for improving 
their small properties, bore amongst their neighbours the charac- 
ter of shrewd, intelligent men, who claimed respect on account of 
their comparative wealth, even while they w'ere despised for a less 
warlike and enterprising turn than tlie other Borderers. They 
lived as much as they well could amongst themselves, avoiding 
the company of others, and dreading nothing more than to bo 
involved in the deadly feuds and ceaseless contentions of the 
eecular landholders. 

Such is a genei’al picture of these communities. During the 
fatal wars in the commencement cf Queen Mary’s reign, they had 
sufiered dreadfully by the hostile invasions. For the English, 
now a Protestant people, were so far from sparing the church- 
lands, that they forayed them with more unrelenting severity 
than even the possessions of the laity. But the peace of 1550 
had restored some degree of tranquillity lo these distracted and 


THE MONASTEIlV. 


53 

harassed regions, and matters began again gi’adually to settle 
upon the former footing. Tlic monks re])aired their ravaged 
shrines — the feuar again roofed liis small fortalice which the 
enemy liad ruined — the poor labourer rebuilt his cottage — an 
easy task, Avhc'i’c a few sods, stones, and some pieces of wood from 
the next copse, furnished all the materials necessary. The cattle, 
lastly, were driven out of the wastes and thickets in which the 
remnant of them had been secreted ; and the mighty bull moved 
at the head of his seraglio and their followers, to take possession 
of their wonted pastures. There ensued peace and quiet, the 
state of the age and nation considered, to the Monastery of Saint 
Mary, and its dependencies, for several tranquil years. 


CHAPTER II. 

In jon lone vale his early youth was bred, 

Not solitary then — the biiple-horn 
<.»f fell Alecto often waked its windings, 

Eroni where the brook joins the majestic river, 

To the wild northern bog, the curlew’s hainit, 

■\Vherc oozes forth its tirst and feeble streamlet. 

Old Play. 

Wii have said, that most of the feuars dwelt in the village 
belonging to their townships. This was not, however, universally 
the case. A lonely tower, to which the reader must now bo 
introduced, w’as at least one exception to the general rule. 

It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those which occurred 
in the village, as intimating that, in case of assault, the proprietor 
would have to rely upon his own unassisted strength. Two or 
throe miserable huts, at the foot of the fortalice, held the bonds- 
men and tenants of the feuar. The site was a beautiful green 
knoll, which started up suddenly in the very throat of a wild and 
narrow glen, and which, being surrounded, except on one side, by 
the winding of a small stream, afforded a position of considerable 
strength. 

Rut the great security of Glendcarg, for so the place wtis 
called, lay in its secluded, and almost hidden situation. To reach 
tlie tower, it w’as necessary to travel three miles up the glen, 
crossing about twenty times the little stream, which, winding 
through the narrow’ valley, encountered at every hundred yards 
the opposition of a rock or precipitous bank on the one side, which 
altered its course, and caused it to shoot off in an oblique direc- 
tion to the other. The hills which ascend on each side of this 
glen arc very steep, and rise boldly over the stream, which is 
thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides of the glen are 
impracticable for horse, and are only to be traversed by means of 
tlie sheep-paths wdiicli lie along their sides. It w’ould not be 
readily supposed that a road so hopeless and so difficult could ic.ad 


54 


THE MONASTERY. 


to any habitation more important than the summer shoaling of a 
shepherd. 

Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible, and steril, 
was not then absolutely void of beauty. The turf which covered 
the small portion of level ground on the sides of the stream, was 
as close and verdant as h' .it had occupied the scythes of a hun- 
dred gardeners once a-fortnight ; and it was garnished with an 
embi’oidery of daisies and \vild flowers, which the scythes would 
certainly have destroyed. The little brook, now confined betwixt 
closer limits, now left at large to choose its course through tlie 
narrow valley, danced cai’elessly on from stream to pool, light 
and unturbid, as that better class of spirits who pass their way 
through life, yielding to insurmountable obstacles, but as far 
from being subdued % them as the sailor who meets by chance 
with an unfavourable wind, and shapes his course so as to be 
driven back as little as possible. 

The mountains, as they would have been called in England, 
Scottice the steep hraes, rose abruptly over the little glen, here 
presenting the gray face of a rock, from which the turf had been 
])eeled by the torrents, and there displaying patches of wood and 
copse, which had escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep oi 
the feuars, and which, feathering naturally up the beds of empty 
torrents, or occupying the concave recesses of the bank, gave at 
once beauty and variety to the landscape. Above these scattered 
woods rose the hill, in barren, but purple majesty ; the dark rich 
hue, particularly in autumn, contrasting beautifully with the 
thickets of oak and birch, the mountain ashes and thorns, the 
alders and quivering aspens, which checquered and varied the 
descent, and not less with the dark-green and velvet turf, which 
composed the level part of the narrow glen. 

Yet, though thus embellished, the scene could neither be strictly 
termed sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even picturesque or 
striking. But its extreme solitude pressed on the heart; the 
traveller felt that uncertainty whither he was going, or in what 
so wild a path was to terminate, which, at times, strikes more on 
the imagination tlian the grand features of a show-scene, wdien 
you know the exact distance of the inn where your dinner is 
bespoke, and at the moment preparing. These are ideas, how- 
ever, of a far later age; for at the time we treat of, the picturesque, 
the beautiful, the sublime, and all their intermediate shades, were 
ideas absolutely unknowm to tlie inhabitants and occasional visiters 
of Glendearg. 

These had, how^ever, attached to the scene feelings fitting the 
time. Its name, signifying the Red Valley, seems to have been 
derived, not only from the purple colour of the heath, with which 
the upper part of the rising banks was profusely clothed, but also 
from the dark red colour of the rocks, and of the precipitous 
e.arthen banks, which in that country are called scaurs. Another 
glen, about the head of Ettrick, has acquired the same name from 


THE MONASTERY. 


55 


similar circumstances ; and there are probably more in Scotland 
to which it has been given. 

As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, supersti- 
tion, that it might not be absolutely destitute of inhabitants, had 
peopled its recesses with beings belonging to another world. The 
savage and capricious Brown Man of the Moors, a being which 
seems the genuine descendant of tlie northern dwarfs, was sup- 
posed to be seen there frequently, especially after the autumnal 
cqyiinox, when the fogs were thick, and objects not easily distin- 
guished. The Scottish fairies, too, a whimsical, irritable, and 
mischievous tribe, who, tliough at times capriciously benevolent, 
were more frequently adverse to mortals, were also supposed to 
have foi'med a residence in a particularly wild recess of the glen, 
of wliich the real name was, in allusion to that circumstance, 
Corrie nan SJiian, which, in corrupted Celtic, signifies the Hollow 
of the Fairies. But tlie neigh bom’s were more cautious in speak- 
ing about this place, and avoided giving it a name, from an idea 
common then diroughout all the British and Celtic provinces of 
Scotland, and still retained in many places, that to speak either 
good or ill of this capricious race of imaginary beings, is to pro- 
voke their resentment, and that secrecy and silence is what they 
chiefly desire from those who may intrude upon their revels, or 
discover their haunts. 

A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, which 
afibrded access from tlie broad valley of tlie Tweed, up the little 
glen we have described, to the fortalice called the Tower of Glen- 
dearg. Beyond the knoll, where, as we have said, the tower was 
situated, the hills gi’ew more steep, and narrowed on the slender 
brook, so as scarce to leave a footpath ; and there the glen ter- 
minated in a wild waterfall, wUere a slender thread of water 
dashed in a precipitous line of foam over two or three precipices. 
Yet farther in flie same direction, and above these successive 
cataracts, lay a wild and extensive morass, frequented only by 
waterfowl, wide, waste, apparently almost interminable, and 
serving in a great measure to separate the inhabitants of the 
glen from those who lived to the northward. 

To restless and indefatigable moss-ti’oopers, indeed, these 
morasses were well kno^vn, and sometimes afforded a retreat. 
They often rode down the glen — called at this tower — asked and 
received hospitality — but still witli a sort of reserve on the part 
of its more peaceful inhabitants, who entertained them as a party 
of North- American Indians might be received by a new Euro- 
pean settler, as much out of fear as hospitality, while the upper- 
most wish of the landlord is the speedy departure of the savage 
guests. 

This had not always been the current of feeling in the little 
valley and its tow’er. Simon Glendinning, its former inliabitant, 
boasted his connection by blood to that ancient family of Glen- 
donwyne, on the western border. He used to narrate, at his 


THE MONASTER V. 


56 

tiresidej in the autuinu evenings, the feats of the family to which 
he belonged, one of whom fell by the side of the brave Earl of 
Douglas at Otterbourne. On these occasions Simon usually held 
upon his knee an ancient broadsword, which had belonged to his 
ancestors before any of the family had consented to accept a fief 
under the peaceful dominion of the monks of Saint Mary’s. In 
modern days, Simon might have lived at ease on his own estate, 
and quietly murmured against the fate that had doomed him to 
dwell there, and cut off his access to martial renown. But so 
many opportunities, nay, so many calls there were for him, who 
in those days spoke big, to make good his words by his actions, 
that Simon Glendinning was soon under the necessity of march- 
ing with the men of the Halidome, as it was called, of Saint 
Mary’s, in that disastrous campaign which was concluded by the 
battle of Pinkie. 

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that national 
quarrel, the principal object of which was, to prevent the union 
of the infant Queen Mary with the son of the heretical Henry 
VIII. The Monks had called out their vassals, under an expe- 
rienced leader. Many of themselves had taken arms, and 
marched to the field, under a banner representing a female, su])- 
posed to personify the Scottish Church, kneeling in the attitude 
of prayer, with the legend, Afflictee Sponsce ne ohliviscaris. * 

The Scots, however, in all their wai-s, had more occasion for 
good and cautious generals, than for excitation, whether political 
or enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient courage uniformly 
induced them to rush into action without duly weighing either 
their own situation, or that of their enemies, and the inevitable 
consequence was frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter 
of Pinkie we have nothing to do, excepting that, among ten 
thousand men of low and high degree, Simon Glendinning, of the 
Tower of Glendearg, bit the dust, no way disparaging in his death 
that ancient race from which he claimed his descent. 

When the doleful news, which spread terror and mourning 
through the whole of Scotland, reached the Tower of Glendearg, 
the widow of Simon, Elspeth Brydone by her family name, was 
alone in that desolate habitation, excepting a hind or two, alike 
past martial and agricultural labour, and the helpless widows and 
families of those who had fallen with their master. The feeling 
of desolation was universal ; — but what availed it ? The monks, 
their patrons and protectors, were driven from their Abbey by 
the English forces, who now overran the country, and enforced 
at least an appearance of submission on the part of the inhabi- 
tants. The Protector, Somerset, formed a strong camp among 
the ruins of the ancient Castle of Roxburgh, and compelled the 
neighbouring country to come in, pay tribute, and take assurance 
from him, as the phrase then went. Indeed, there was no power 


Forget not the afflicted spouse. 


THE MONASTERY. 


resistance remaining ; and the few barons, whoso high spirit 
disdained even the appearance of surrender, could only retreat into 
tlie wildest fastnesses of the countiy, leaving their houses and 
property to the wrath of the English, who detached parties every 
where to distress, by military exaction, those whose chiefs had not 
made their submission. The Abbot and his community having 
retreated beyond the Forth, their lands were severely forayed, as 
their sentiments were held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with 
England. 

Amongst the troops detached on this service was a small party, 
commanded by Stawarth Bolton, a captain in the English army, 
and full of the blunt and unpretending gallantry and generosity 
which has so often distinguished that nation. Resistance was in 
vain. Elspeth Brydone, when she descried a dozen of horsemen 
threading their way up the glen, with a man at their head, whose 
scai-let cloak, bright armour, and dancing plume, proclaimed him 
a leader, saw no better protection for herself than to issue from 
the ii’on grate, covered with a long mourning veil, and holding 
one of her two sons in each hand, to meet the Englishman — state 
her deserted condition — place the little tower at his command — 
and beg for his mercy. She stated, in a few brief words, her 
intention, and added, “ I submit, because I have nae means of 
resistance.” 

“ And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for the same 
reason,” replied the Englishman. “ To be satisfied of your peace- 
ful intentions is all I ask ; and, from what you tell me, there is no 
reason to doubt them.” 

“ At least, sir,” said Elspeth Brydone, “ take share of what our 
spence and our garners afford. Your horses arc tired — your 
folk w'ant refreshment.” 

“ Not a whit — not a whit,” answered the honest Englishman ; 
“ it shall never be said we distui’bed by carousal the widow of a 
brave soldier, while she was mourning for her husband. — Com- 
i-ades, face about. — Y et, stay,” he added, checking his war-horse, 
“ my parties are out in every direction ; they must have some 
token that }'our family arc under my assurance of safety. — Here, 
my little fellow,” said he, speaking to the eldest boy, who might 
be about nine or ten years old, “ lend me thy bonnet.” 

The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while the 
mother, with many a fye and nay pshatc, and such sarsenet 
cilidiugs as tender mothers give to spoiled children, at length 
succeeded in snatching tlie bonnet from him, and handing it to the 
Enghsh leader. 

.Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from his bar- 
rct-cap, and putting it into the loop of the boy’s bonnet, said to 
the mistress, (for the title of lady was not given to dames of her 
degree,) “ By this token, which all my people w'ill respect, you 
will be freed from any importunity on the part of our foray(>r.s.” * 
* See Note A. Staivarth Bolton.] 


58 


THE MONASTERY. 


He placed it on the boy’s head ; but it was no sooner there, than 
the little fellow, his veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire 
through tears, snatched the bonnet from his head, and, ere his 
mother could intei’fere, slammed it into the brook. The other 
boy ran instantly to fish it out again, threw it back to his brother, 
first taking out the cross, which, with great veneration, he kissed 
and put into his bosom. The Englishman was half diverted, half 
surprised, with the scene. 

“ What mean ye by throwing away Saint George’s red cross 1 ” 
said he to the elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest and earnest. 

“ Because Saint George is a southern saint,” said the child, 
sulkily. 

“ Good” — said Stawarth Bolton . — “ And what did you mean by 
taking it out of the brook again, my little fellow ?” he demanded 
of the younger. 

“ Because the priest says it is the common sign of salvation to 
all good Christians.” 

“ Why, good again I” said the honest soldier. “ I protest unto 
you, mistress, I envy you these boys^ Are they both yours ?” 

Staw^arth Bolton had reason to put the question, for Halbert 
Gleudinning, the elder of the two, had hair as dark as the raven’s 
plumage, black eyes, large, bold, and sparkling, that glittered 
under eyebrows of the same complexion ; a skin deep embrowned, 
though it could not be termed swarthy, and an air of activity, 
frankness, and determination, far beyond his age. On the otlier 
hand, Edward, the younger brother, was light-haii’ed, blue-eyed, 
and of fairer complexion, in countenance ratlier pale, and not 
exhibiting that rosy hue w^hich colours the sanguine cheek of 
robust, health. Yet the boy had nothing sickly or ill-conditioned 
in his look, but was, on the contrary, a fair and handsome child, 
with a smiling face, and mild, yet cheerful eye. 

The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first at the one, 
and then at the other, ere she answ'ered the Englishman, “ Surely, 
sir, they are both my cliildren.” 

“ And by the same father, mistress 1” said Staw'arth ; but, see- 
ing a blush of displeasure arise on her brow, he instantly added, 
“ Nay, I mean no offence ; I would have asked the same question 
at any of my gossips in merry Lincoln. — Well, dame, you have 
two fair boys ; I would I could borrow one, for Dame Bolton and 
I live childless in our old hall. — Come, little fellow's, which of 
you will go wdth me ?” 

The trembling mother, half-fearing as he spoke, drew the 
children towards her, one wdth either hand, while they botli 
answered the stranger. “ I will not go with you,” said Halbert, 
boldly, “ for you are a false-hearted Southern ; and the Southerns 
killed my father ; and I will war on you to the death, when I can 
draw my father’s sword.” 

“ God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,” said Staw'arth, “the 
goodly custom of deadly feud will never go dow'ii in thy day, I 


THE MONASTERY. 59 

presume. — And you, my fine white-head, will you not go with 
me, to ride a cock-horse ?” 

“ No,” said Edward, demurely, “ for you ai’e a heretic.” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy still !” said Stawarth Bolton. “ Well, 
dame, T see I shall find no recruits for my troop from you ; and 
yet I do envy you these two little chubby knaves.” He sighed a 
moment, as was visible, in spite of gorget and corslet, and then 
added, " And yet, my dame and I would but quarrel which of the 
knaves we should like best ; for I should wish for the black-eyed 
rogue — and she, I warrant me, for that blue-eyed, fair-haired 
darling. Natheless, we must brook our solitary wedlock, and 
wish joy to those that are more fortunate. — Sergeant Brittson, 
do thou remain here till recalled — protect this family, as under 
assurance — do them no wrong, and suffer no wrong to be done 
to them, as thou wilt answer it. — Dame, Brittson is a married 
man, old and steady ; feed him on what you will, but give him 
not over much liquor.” 

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with a fal- 
tering voice, and an obvious desire her invitation should not bo 
accepted. The fact was, that, supposing her boys as precious in 
the eyes of tlie Englishman as in her own, (the most ordinary of 
pai’enbil errors,) she was half afraid, that the admiration he 
expressed of them in his blunt manner might end in his actually 
carrying off one or other of tlie little darlings Avhom he appeared 
to covet so much. She kept hold of their hands, therefore, as if 
her feeble strength could have been of service, had any violence 
been intended, and saw with joy she could not disguise, the little 
party of horse countermarch, in order to descend the glen. Her 
feelings did not escape Stawarth Bolton, I forgive you, dame,” 
iie said, “ for being suspicious that an English falcon was hover- 
ing over your Scottish moor-brood. But fear not — those who 
have fewest children have fewest cares ; nor does a wise man 
covet those of another household. Adieu, dame ; when the black- 
cyed rogue is able to drive a foray from England, teach him to 
spare women and children, for the sake of Stawarth Bolton.” 

“ God be with you, gallant Southern !” said Elspeth Glendin- 
ning, but not till he was out of hearing, spurring on his good 
horse to regain the head of his party, whose plumage and armour 
were now glancing and gradually disappearing in the distance, 
as they winded dowm the glen. 

Mothei’,” said the elder boy, " I will not say amen to a 
ju'ayer for a Southern.” 

“ Mother,” said the younger, more reverentially, “ is it right 
to pray for a heretic ?” 

•• The God to whom I pray only knows,” answered poor 
Elspeth; "but these two w'ords. Southern and heretic, have 
already cost Scotland ten thousand of her best and bravest, and 
me a husband, and you a father ; and, whether blessing or ban- 
ning, I never wish to hear them more. — Follow me to the Place, 


CO 


THE MONASTERY. 


sir,” slic said to Brittson, “ and such as wo have to offer you 
sluill bo at your disposal.” 


CHAPTER III. 

They lighted down on Tweed water, 

And blew their coals sae het, 

And fired the March and Tcviotdale, 

All in an evening late. 

^icld Maitland. 

The report soon spread tlirough the patrimony of Saint Mary's 
and its vicinity, that the Mistress of Glendearg had received 
assurance from the English Captain, and that her cattle were not 
(o bo driven oft', or her corn burned. Among others who heard 
this report, it reached the eai’S of a lady, who, once much higher 
in I’ank than Elspeth Glendinning, was now by the same calamity 
reduced to even greater misfortune. 

She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, de- 
scended of a very ancient Border family, who once possessed 
immense estates in Eskdale. These had long since passed from 
tliem into other hands, but they still enjoyed an ancient Barony 
of considerable extent, not very far from the patrimony of Saint 
jMary’s, and lying upon the same side of the river with the 
narrow vale of Glendeai’g, at the head of which was the little 
tower of the Glendinnings. Here they had lived, bearing a 
respectable rank amongst the gentry of their province, though 
neither wealthy nor powerful. This general regard had been 
much augmented by the skill, courage, and enterprise which had 
been displayed by Walter Avenel, the last Baron. 

When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful shock she 
had sustained after the battle of Pinkie-Cleuch, Avenel was one 
of the first who, assembling a small force, set an example in 
those bloody and unsparing skirmishes, which shewed that a 
nation, though conquered and overrun by invaders, may yet 
wage against them such a war of detail as shall in the end become 
fatal to the foreigners. In one of these, however, Walter Avenel 
fell, and the news which came to the house of his fathers was 
followed by the distracting intelligence, that a party of English- 
men were coming to plunder the mansion and lands of his widow, 
in order, by this act of teiTor, to prevent others from following 
the example of the deceased. 

The unfortunate lady had no better refuge than the miserable 
cottage of a shepherd among the hills, to which she was hastily 
removed, scai'ce conscious where or for what purpose her terri- 
fied attendants were removing her and her infant daughter from 
her own house. Here she was tended with all the duteous 
service of ancient times by the shepherd’s wife, Tibb Tacket, who 


THE MONASTERY. 


61 

in better days had been her own bowerwoman. For a time 
the lady was unconscious of her misery ; but when the first 
stunning effect of grief was so far passed away that she could 
form an estimate of her own situation, the widow of Avenel had 
cause to envy the lot of her husband in his dark and silent abode. 
The domestics who had guided her to her place of refuge, were 
presently obliged to disperse for their own safety, or to seek for 
necessary subsistence ; and tlie shepherd and his wife, whose 
]ioor cottage she shared, were soon after deprived of the means 
of affording their late mistress even that coarse sustenance which 
they had gladly shared with her. Some of the English forayers 
had discovered and driven off the few sheep which had escaped 
the first researches of their avarice. Two cows shared the fate 
of the remnant of their stock ; they had afforded the family 
almost their sole support, and now famine appeared to stare them 
in the face. 

We are broken and beggared now, out and out,” said old 
IMartin the shepherd — and he wrung his hands in the bitterness 
of agony, “ the thieves, the harrying thieves ! not a cloot left of 
the haiil hirsel !” 

“ And to see poor Grizzy and Crumbie,” said his wife, “ turn- 
ing back their necks to the byre, and routing while the stony- 
hearted villains were brogging them on wi’ their lances !” 

There were but four of them,” said Martin, “ and I have 
seen the day forty wad not have ventui’ed this length. But our 
strength and manhood is gane with our puir raaister.” 

“ For the sake of the holy rood, Avhisht, man,” said the good- 
wife, “our leddy is half gane already, as ye may see by that 
flciglitering of the ec-lid — a word mair and she ’s dead outright.” 

“ I could almost wish,” said Martin, “ we were a’ gane, for 
wliat to do passes my puir Avit. I care little for mysell, or you, 
Tibb, — we can make a fend — work or want — we can do baith, 
but she can do neither.” 

They canvassed their situation thus openly before the lady, 
convinced by the paleness of her look, her quivering lip, and 
dead -set eye, that she neither heard nor understood what they 
were saying. 

“ There is a way,” said the shepherd, “ but I kenna if she 
could bring her heart to it, — there ’s Simon Glendinning’s widow 
of the glen yonder, has had assurance from the Southern loons, 
and nae soldier to steer them for one cause or other. Now, if 
the leddy could bow her mind to take quarters with Elspeth 
Glendinning till better days east up, nae doubt it wad be doing 
an honour to tlie like of her, but^ 

“ A n honour,” answered Tibb, “ ay, by my word, sic an 
lionour as wad be pride to her kin mony a lang year after her 
banes were in the mould. Oh ! gudeman, to hear ye even the 
Lady of Avenel to seeking quarters wi’ a Kii’k -vassal’s widow !” 

“ Loath should T be to wish her to it,” said Martin; “ but what 


62 


THE MONASTERY. 


may we do ? — to stay here is mere starvation ; and where to go, 
I ’m sure I ken nae mair than ony tup I ever herded.” 

“ Speak no more of it,” said the widow of Avenel, suddenly 
joining in the conversation, ‘‘I will go to the tower. — ^^Damo 
Elspeth is of good folk, a widow, and the mother of orphans, — 
she will give us house-room until something be thought upon. 
These evil showers make the low bush better than no bield.” 

“ See there, see there,” said Martin, you see the leddy has 
twice our sense.” 

“ And natural it is,” said Tibb, “ seeing that she is convent- 
bred, and can lay silk broidery, foi’by white-seam and shell- 
work.” 

“ Do you not think,” said the lady to Martin, still clasping her 
child to her bosom, and making it clear from what motives she 
desired the refuge, “ that Dame Glendinning will make us wel- 
come V’ 

Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy,” answered 
Martin cheerily, “ and we shall deserve a welcome at her hand. 
Men are scarce now, my leddy, with these wars ; and gie me a 
thought of time to it, I can do as gude a day’s darg as ever I did 
in my life, and Tibb can sort cows with ony living woman.” 

“ And muckle mair could I do,” said Tibb, “ were it in ony 
feasible house ; but there will be neither pearlins to mend, nor 
pinners to busk up, in Elspeth Glendinning’s.” 

“ Whisht wi’ your pride, woman,” said the shepherd ; “ eneugh 
ye can do, baith outside and inside, an ye set your mind to it.* 
and hard it is if we twa canna work for three folk’s meat, forbj 
my dainty wee leddy there. Come awa, come awa, nae use ic 
staying here langer; we have five Scots miles over moss and 
muir, and that is nae easy walk for a leddy born and bred.” 

Household stuff there was little or none to remove or care fo.r 
an old pony which had escaped the plunderers, owing partly to 
its pitiful appearance, partly from the reluctance which it shewed 
to be caught by strangers, was employed to carry the few blan- 
kets, and other trifles which they possessed. When Shagram 
came to his master’s well known whistle, he was surprised to 
find the poor thing had been wounded, though slightly, by an 
arrow, which one of the foray ers had shot off in anger after lie 
had long chased it in vain. 

“ Ay, Shagram,” said the old man, as he applied something to 
the wound, “ must you rue the lang-bow as weel as all of us ?” 

What corner in Scotland i-ues it not !” said the Lady of 
Avenel. 

" Ay, ay, madam,” said Martin, God keep the Idndly Scot 
from the cloth-yard shaft, and he will keep himself from the 
handy stroke. But let us go our way ; the trash that is left I 
can come back for. There is nae ane to stir it but the good 
neighbours, and they ” 

“ Eor the love of God, goodman,” said his wife, in a remoa- 


THE MONASTERY. 


G3 

strating tone, " hand your peace ! Think \rhat ye ’re saying,' 
and we hae sae muckle wild land to go over before we win to tlie 
girth gate.” 

The husband nodded acquiescence ; for it was deemed highly 
imprudent to speak of the fairies either by tlieir title of good 
neighbours or by any other, especially when about to pass the 
places which they were supposed to haunt.* 

They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last da^y of Octo- 
ber. This is thy birth-day, my sweet Mary,” said the mother, 
as a sting of bitter recollection crossed her mind. “ Oh, who 
could have believed that the head, which, a few years since, was 
cradled amongst so many rejoicing friends, may perhaps this 
night seek a cover in vain !” 

The exiled family then set forward, — Mary Avenel, a lovely 
girl between five and six years old, riding gipsy fashion upon 
Shagram, betwixt two bundles of bedding ; the Lady of Avenel 
walldng by the animal’s side ; Tibb leading the bridle, and old 
Martin walking a little before, looking anxiously around him to 
explore the way. 

Martin’s task as guide, after two or three miles’ walldng, 
became more difficult than he himself had expected, or than he 
was willing to avow. It happened that the extensive range oi 
pasturage, with which he was conversant, lay to the west, and to 
get into the little valley of Glendearg he had to proceed easterly. 
In the wilder districts of Scotland, tlie passage from one vale to 
another, otherwise than by descending that which you leave, 
and reascending the other, is often very difficult. — Heights and 
hollows, mosses and rocks intervene, and all those local impedi- 
ments which throw a traveller out of his course. So that Martin, 
however sure of his general direction, became conscious, and at 
length was forced reluctantly to admit, that he had missed the 
direct road to Glendearg, though he insisted they must be very 
near it. “ If we can but win across this wide bog,” he said, “ I 
shall warrant ye are on the top of the tower.” 

But to get across the bog was a point of no small difficulty. 
The farther they ventured into it, though proceeding with all the 
caution which Martin’s experience recommended, the more 
unsound the ground became, until, after they had passed some 
places of great peril, their best argument for going forward came 
to be, that they had to encounter equal danger in returning. 

The Lady of Avenel had been tenderly nurtured, but what will 
not a woman endui’e when her child is in danger 1 Complaining 
less of the dangers of the road than her attendants, who had been 
inured to such from their infancy, she kept herself close by the 
side of the pony, watching its every footstep, and ready, if it should 
flounder in the morass, to snatch her little Mary from its back. 

At length they came to a place where the guide greatly hesi- 


* See Note B. The Fairict 


64 


THE MONASTERY. 


tated, for all around him was hi’oken lumps of heath, divided from 
each other by deep sloughs of black tenacious mire. After great 
consideration, Martin, selecting what he thought the safest path, 
began himself to lead forward Shagram, in order to afford greater 
security to the child. But Shagram snorted, laid his ears back, 
stretched his two feet forward, and drew his hind feet under him, 
so as to adopt the best possible posture for obstinate resistance, 
and refused to move one yard in the direction indicated. Old 
Martin, much puzzled, now hesitated whether to exert his abso- 
lute authority, or to defer to the contumacious obstinacy of 
Shagi'am, and was not greatly comforted by his wife’s observa- 
tion, who, seeing Shagram stare with his eyes, distend his nostrils, 
and tremble with terror, hinted that “ he surely saw more than 
tl'.ey could see.” 

In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed — Bonny leddy 
signs to us to come yon gate.” They all looked in the direction 
where the child pointed, but saw nothing, save a wreath of rising 
mist, which fancy might form into a human figure ; but whicli 
afforded to Martin only the sorrowful conviction, that the danger 
of their situation was about to be increased by a heavy fog. He 
once more essayed to lead forward Shagram ; but the animal was 
inflexible in its determination not to move in the direction Martin 
- recommended. “ Take your awn way for it then,” said IMartin, 
and let us see what you can do for us.” 

Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free-will, set 
off boldly ill the direction the child had pointed. There was 
nothing wonderful in this, nor in its bringing them safe to the 
other side of the dangerous moi’ass ; for the instinct of these 
animals in traversing bogs is one of the most curious parts of 
their nature, and is a fact generally established. But it was 
remarkable, that the child more than once mentioned the beau- 
tiful lady and her signals, and that Shagram seemed to be in 
tlie secret, always moving in the same direction which she indi- 
cated. The Lady of Avenel took little notice at the time, her 
mind being probably occupied by the instant danger ; but her 
attendants changed expressive looks with each other more than 
once. 

“ All-Hallow Eve !” said Tibb, in a whisper to Martin. 

“For the mercy of Our Lady, not a word of that now !” said 
Martin in reply. “ Tell your beads, woman, if you cannot be 
silent.” 

When they got once more on firm ground, jMartin recognized 
certain land-marks, or cairns, on the tops of the neighbouring 
hills, by which he was enabled to guide his course, and ere long 
they arrived at the Tower of Glendearg. 

!t was at the sight of this little fortalico that the misery of her 
lot pressed hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. When by any 
accident they had met at church, market, or other place of public 
resort, she remembered the distant and I’cspectful air with which 


THE MONASTERY. 


65 


the wife of the warlike baron was addressed by the spouse of 
the humble feuar. And now, so much was her pride humbled, 
that she was to ask to share the precarious safety of the same 
feuar’s widow, and her pittance of food, which might perhaps 
be yet more precarious. Martin probably guessed what was 
passing in her mind, for he looked at her with a wistful glance, 
as if to deprecate any change of resolution ; and answering to 
his looks, rather than his words, she said, while the sparkle of 
subdued pride once more glanced from her eye, “ If it were for 
myself alone, I coiild but die — b\it for this infant — the last 
pledge of Avenel ” 

“ True, my lady,” said Martin hastily; and, as if to prevent 
the possibility of her retracting, he added, “ I will step on and 
see Dame Elspeth — I kend her husband weel, and have bought 
and sold with him, for as great a man as he was.” 

Martin’s tale was soon told, and met all acceptance from her 
companion in misfortune. The Lady of Avenel had been meek 
and courteous in her prosperity ; in adversity, therefore, she met 
with the greater sympathy. Besides, there was a point of pride 
in sheltering and supporting a woman of such superior birth and 
rank ; and, not to do Elspeth Glendinning injustice, she felt 
sympathy for one whose fate resembled her own in so many 
l)oints, yet was so much more severe. Every species of hospi- 
tality was gladly and respectfully extended to the distressed 
travel lei’s, and they were kindly requested to stay as long at 
Glendearg as their circumstances rendered necessary, or their 
inclination prompted. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Ne’er be I found by tliec unawed, 

On that thrice hallow’d eve abroad, 

When goblins haunt from flood and fen. 

The steps of men. 

Collins's Ode to Fea -, . 

As the country became more settled, the Lady of Avenel 
would have willingly returned to her husband’s mansion. But 
that was no longer in her power. It was a reign of minority, 
when the strongest had the best right, and when acts of usurpa- 
tion were frequent amongst those who had much power and 
little coifscience. 

Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased Walter, was 
a person of this description. He hesitated not to seize upon his 
brother’s house and lands, so soon as the retreat of the English 
permitted him. At first, he occupied the property in the name 
of his niece, but when the lady proposed to return with her child 
to the mansion of its fathers, he gave her to understand, that 
Avenel, being a male fief, descended to the brother, instead of the 
X. E 


THE MONASTERY. 


66 

daughter, of the last possessor. The ancient philosopher declined 
a dispute with the emperor who commanded twenty legions, and 
the widow of Walter Avenel was in no condition to maintain a 
contest with the leader of twenty moss-troopers. Julian was also 
a man of service, who could back a friend in case of need, and 
was sure, therefore, to find protectors among the ruling powers. 
In short, how’ever clear the little Mary’s right to the possessions 
of her father, her mother saw the necessity of giving way, at least 
for the time, to tlie usurpation of her uncle. 

Her patience and forbearance were so far attended with advan- 
tage, that Julian, for very shame’s sake, could no longer suffer her 
to be absolutely dependant on the charity of Elspetli Glendinning. 
A drove of cattle and a bull (which were probably missed by 
some English fanner) w^^ve driven to the pastures of Glendearg ; 
presents of raiment and household stun were sent liberally, and 
some little money, though with a more sparing hand : for those 
in the situation of Julian Avenel could come more easily by the 
goods, than the representing medium of value, and made their 
payments chiefly in kind. 

In the meantime, the widows of Walter Avenel and Simon 
Glendinning had become habituated to each other’s society, and 
were unwilling to part. The lady could hope no more secret and 
secm'e residence than in the Tower of Glendearg, and she Avas 
now in a condition to support her share of the mutual house- 
keeping. Elspeth, on the other hand, felt pride, as well as pleasure, 
in the society of a guest of such distinction, and was at all times 
willing to pay much greater deference than the Lady of Walter 
Avenel could be prevailed on to accept. 

]\Iartin and his wife diligently served the united family in their 
several vocations, and yielded obedience to both mistresses, though 
always considering themselves as the especial servants of the 
Lady of Avenel. This distinction sometimes occasioned a slight 
degree of difference between Dame Elspeth and Tibb ; the former 
being jealous of her own consequence, and the latter apt to lay 
too much stress upon the rank and family of her mistress. But 
both were alike desirous to conceal such petty squabbles from the 
lady, her hostess scarce yielding to her old domestic in respect 
for her person. Neither did the difference exist in such a degree 
as to interrupt the general harmony of the family, for the one 
wisely gave way as she saw the other become warm ; and Tibb, 
though she often gave the fii'st provocation, had generally the 
sense to be the first in relinquishing the argument. 

The world which lay beyond was gi'adually foi’gotten by the 
inhabitants of this sequestered glen, and unless when she attended 
mass at the Monastery Church upon some high holiday, Alice of 
Avenel almost forgot that she once held an equal rank with the 
proud wives of the neighbouring barons and nobles who on such 
occasions crowded to the solemnity. The recollection gave her 
little pain. She loved her'liusband for himself, and in his inesti- 


THE MONASTERY. 


67 


mable loss all lesser subjects of regret had ceased to interest her. 
At times, indeed, she thought of claiming the protection of the 
Queen Regent (Mary of Guise) for her little orphan, but the fear 
of Julian Avenel always came between. She was sensible that 
he would have neither scruple nor difficulty in spiriting away the 
child, (if he did not pi’oceed farther,) should he once consi- 
der its existence as formidable to his interest. Besides, he led a 
wild and unsettled life, mingling in all feuds and forays, wherever 
there was a spear to be broken ; he evinced no purpose of marry- 
ing, and the fate which he continually was braving might at length 
remove him from his usurjied inheritance. Alice of Avenel, 
therefore, judged it wise to check all 'i.mbitious thoughts for the 
present, and remain quiet in the rude, but peaceable retreat, to 
which Providence had conducted her. 

It was upon an All-Hallow’s eve, when the family had resided 
together for the space of three years, that the domestic circle was 
assembled round the blazing turf-fire, in the old narrow hall of 
the Tower of Glendearg. The idea of the master or mistress of 
the mansion feeding or living apart from their domestics, was at 
this period never entei’tained. The highest end of the board, the 
most commodious settle by the fire, — these were the only marks 
of distinction ; and the servants mingled, with deference indeed, 
but unreproved and with freedom, in whatever conversation was 
going forward. But the two or three domestics, kept merely for 
agricultural purposes, had retired to their own cottages without, 
and with them a couple of wenches, usually employed within 
doors, the daughters of one of the hinds. 

After their departure, Martin locked, first, the iron grate ; and, 
secondly, the inner door of the tower, when the domestic circle 
was thus arranged. Dame Elspeth sate pulling the thread from 
her distaff ; Tibb watched the progress of scalding the whey, 
which hung in a large pot upon the crook, a chain terminated by 
a hook, which was suspended in the chimney to serve the purpose 
of the modern crane. Martin, while busied in repairing some of 
the household articles, (for every man in those days was his own 
carpenter and smith, as well as his own tailor and shoemaker,) 
kept from time to time a watchful eye upon the three children. 

They were allowed, however, to exercise their juvenile rest- 
lessness by running up and down the hall, behind the seats of 
tlie elder members of the family, with the privilege of occasion- 
ally making excursions into one or two small apartments which 
opened from it, and gave excellent opportunity to play at hide- 
and-seek. This night, however, the children seemed not dis- 
posed to avail themselves of their privilege of visiting these dark 
regions, but preferred carrying on their gambols in the vicinity 
of the light. 

In the meanwhile, Alice of Avenel, sitting close to an iron 
candlestick, which supported a mis-shapen torch of domestic 
manufacture, read small detached passages from a thick clasped 


THE MONASTERY. 


voluraej winch she preserved with the greatest care. Tlie art of 
reading, the lady had acquired by her residence in a nunnery 
during her youth, but she seldom, of late years, put it to any 
other use than perusing this little volume, which formed her 
whole library. The family listened to the portions which she 
selected, as to some good thing which there was a merit in hear- 
ing with respect, whether it was fully understood or no. To her 
daughter, Alice of Avenel had determined to impart their mystery 
moi-e fully, but the knowledge was at that period attended Avith 
personal danger, and was not rashly to be trusted to a child. 

The noise of the romping children interrupted, from time to 
time, the voice of the lady, and drew on the noisy culprits the 
rebuke of Elspeth. 

“ Could they not go farther a-field, if they behoved to make 
such a din, and disturb the lady’s good words ?” And this com- 
mand was backed Avith the threat of sending the Avhole party to 
bed if it Avas not attended to punctually. Acting under the 
injunction, the children first played at a greater distance from 
the party, and more quietly, and then began to stray into the 
adjacent apartments, as they became impatient of the restraint 
to Avhich they Avere subjected. But, all at once, the tAvo boys 
came open-mouthed into the hall, to tell that there Avas an armed 
man in the spence. 

“ It must be Christie of Clint-hill,” said Martin, rising ; “ Avhat 
can have brought him here at this time 

“ Or hoAV came he in 1” said Elspeth. 

“ Alas ! Avhat can he seek ?” said the Lady of Avenel, to Avhom 
this man, a retainer of her husband’s brother, and Avho some- 
times executed his commissions at Glendearg, Avas an object of 
secret apprehension and suspicion. “ Gracious lieaA’-ens !” she 
added, rising vip, Avhere is my child 1” All rushed to the 
spence. Halbert Glendinning first arming himself Avith a rusty 
sword, and the younger seizing upon the la^’s book. They 
hastened to the spence, and Avere relieved of a part of their 
anxiety by meeting Mary at the door of the apartment. She did 
not seem in the slightest degree alarmed, or disturbed. They 
rushed into the spence, (a sort of interior apartment in Avlncli 
the family ate their Auctuals in the summer season,) but there 
AA'as no one there. 

“ Where is Christie of Clint-hill 1” said Martin. 

‘‘ I do not knoAAq” said little Mary ; I never saAV him.” 

“ And Avhat made you, ye misleard loons,” said Dame Elspeth 
to her tAVO boys, “ come yon gate into the ha’, roaidng like bull- 
segs, to frighten the leddy, and her far frae strong ?” The boys 
looked at each other in silence and confusion, and their mother 
proceeded Avith her Ipcture. “ Could ye find nae night for daffin 
1/Ut HalloAvo’en, and nae time but Avhen the leddy Avas reading to 
us about the holy Saints ? May ne’er be in my fingers, if I 
clinna sort ye baith for it !” The eldest boy bent his eyes on tha 


THE MONASTERY. 


69 

j'roTiuJ, the younger began to weep, but neither spolve ; and the 
mother would have proceeded to extremities, but for the iiiter- 
jjosition of the little maiden. 

“ Dame Elspeth, it was mij fault — I did say to them, that I 
saw a man in the spence.” 

“ And what made you do so, child,” said her mother, “ to 
startle us all thus 

“ Because,” said ^lary, lowering her voice, “ I could not 
help it.” 

“ Not help it, Mary ! — you occasioned all this idle noise, and 
you could not help it \ Ilow mean you by tliat, minion ?” 

“ There really was an armed man in this spence,” said INIary ; 
“ and because I was surprised to see him, I cried out to Ilalbei-t 
and Edward ” 

‘‘ She has told it hei’self,” said Halbert Glendinning, “ or it had 
never been told by me.” 

“ Nor by me neither,” said Edward emulously. 

“ Mistress Mary,” said Elspeth, ‘‘ you never told us any thing 
befoi’e that was not true ; tell us if this was a Hallowe’en cantrip, 
and make an end of it.” The Lady of Avenel looked as if she 
would have interfered, but knew not how ; and Elspeth, who was 
too eagerly curious to regard any distant hint, persevered in her 
inquiides. “ Was it Christie of the Clint-hill ? — I would not for 
a mark that he were about the house, and a body no ken wharc.’ 

“ It was not Christie,” said Mary ; ‘‘ it was — It was a gentle- 
man — a gentleman with a bi’ight breastplate, like what I haeseen 
langsyne, when we dwelt at Avenel ” 

“ What like was he ?” continued Tibb, who now took share in 
the investigation. 

“ Black-haired, black-eyed, with a peaked black beard,” saitl 
the child, ‘^and many a fold of pearling round his neck, and 
hanging down his breast ower his bi’eastplate ; and he had a 
beautiful hawk, with silver bells, standing on his left hand, with a 
cx'imson silk hood upon its head ” 

“ Ask her no more questions, for the love of God,” said the 
anxious menial to Elspeth, “ but look to my leddy !” But the 
Lady of Avenel, taking Mary in her hand, turned hastily away, 
and, walking into the hall, gave them no opportunity of remarking 
in what manner she received the child’s communication, whicli 
she thus cut short. What Tibb thought of it appeared from her 
crossing herself repeatedly, and whispering into Elspeth’s ear, 
“ Saint Mary preserve us ! — the lassie has seen her father!” 

When they I’eached the hall, they found the lady holding her 
daughter on her knee, and kissing her repeatedly. When they 
entered, she again arose, as if to shun observation, and retired to 
the little apartment where her child and she occupied the same 
bed. 

The boys were also sent to their cabin, and no one remained 
by the hall fire save the faithful Tibb and Dame Elspeth, excel- 


THE MONASTERY, 


70 

lent persons botli, and as thorough gossips as ever wagged a 
tongue. 

It was but natural that they should instantly resume the sub- 
ject of the supernatural appearance, for such they deemed it, 
which had this night alarmed the family. 

“ 1 could hae wished it had been the deil himself — be good to 
and preserve us! — rather than Christie o’ tlie Clint-hill,” said 
the matron of the mansion, “ for the word runs rife in the 
country, that he is ane of the maist masterfu’ thieves ever lap on 
horse.” 

“ Hout-tout, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb, “ fear ye naething frae 
Christie ; tods keep their ain holes clean. You kirk -folk make sic 
a fasherie about men shifting a wee bit for their living ! Our 
Border-lairds would ride with few men at their back, if a’ the 
light-handed lads were out o’ gate.” 

“ Better they rade wi’ nane than distress the country-side the 
gate they do,” said Dame Elspeth. 

“ But wha is to hand back the Southron, then,” said Tibb, “ if 
ye take away the lances and broad-swords ? I trow we auld 
wives cou{dna do that wi’ rock and wheel, and as little the monks 
wi’ bell and book.” 

“ And sae weel as tlie lances and broadswords hae kept them 
back, I trow! — I was mair beholden to ae Southron, and that 
was Stawarth Bolton, than to a’ the Border-riders ever wore 
Saint Andrew’s cross — I reckon their skelping back and forward, 
and lifting honest men’s gear, has been a main cause of a’ the 
breach between us and England, and 1 am sure that cost me a 
kind goodman. They spoke about the wedding of the Prince and 
our Queen, but it’s as like to be the driving of the Cumberland 
folk’s stocking that brought them down on us like dragons.” Tibb 
would not have failed in other circumstances to answer what she 
thought reflections disparaging to her country folk ; but she recol- 
lected that Dame Elspeth was mistress of the family, curbed her 
own zealous patriotism, and hastened to change the subject. 

“ And is it not strange,” she said, “ that the heiress of Avenel 
should have seen her father this blessed night 1” 

And ye think it was her father, then?” said Elspeth Glen- 
dinning. 

“ What else can I think ?” said Tibb. 

“ It may hae been something waur, in his likeness,” said Dame 
Glendinning. 

“ I ken naething about that,” said Tibb, — “ but his libeiu ss it 
was, that I will be sworn to, just as he used to ride out a-hawking; 
for having enemies in the country, he seldom laid off the breast- 
plate; and for my part,” added Tibb, “ I dinna think a man looks 
like a man unless he has steel on his breast, and by his side too.” 

“ I have no skill of your harness on breast or side either,” said 
Dame Glendinning ; “ but I ken there is little luck in Hallowe’en 
sights, for I have had ane my sell 


THE MONASTERY. 


71 

“ Indeed, Dame Elspeth V’ said old Tibb, edging bet stool 
closer to the liuge elbow-chair occupied by her friend, “ I should 
like to hear about that.” 

“Ye maun ken then, Tibb,” said Dame Glondinning, “ that 
when I was a hempie of nineteen or twenty, it wasna my fault if 
I wasna at a’ the merry-makings time about.” 

“ That was very natural,” said Tibb ; “ but ye hae sobered 
since that, or ye wadna baud our braw gallants sae lightly.” 

“ I have had that wad sober me or ony ane,” said the matron. 
“ Aweel, Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack wooers, for I wasna 
sae ill-favoured that the tikes wad bark after me.” 

“ How sliould that be,” said Tibb, “ and you sic a weel-favoured 
woman to this day ?” 

“ Fie, fie, cummer,” said the matron of Glendearg, hitcliing her 
seat of honour, in her turn, a little nearer to the cuttie-stool on 
which Tibb was seated ; “ weel-favoured is past my time of day ; 
but I might pass then, for I wasna sae tocherless but what I had 
a bit land at my breast-lace. My father was portioner of Little- 
dearg.” 

“Ye hae toll’d me that before,” said Tibb ; “butanent the 
Hallowe’en ?” 

“ Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favoured nane 
o’ them ; and sae, at Hallowe’en, Father Nicolas the cellarer — he 
was cellarer before this father, Father Clement, that now is — was 
cracking his nuts and drinking his brown beer Avith us, and as 
blithe as might be, and they would have me try a cantrip to ken 
wha suld Aved me; and the monk said thei’e Avas nae ill in it, and 
if there Avas, he Avould assoil me for it. And Avha but I into the 
barn to AvinnoAV my three Aveiglits o’ naething — sair, sair my 
mind misgave me for fear of Avrang-doing and Avrang-suffering 
baith ; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not AvinnoAved the last 
Aveight clean out, and the moon Avas shining bright upon the floor, 
AA'hcn in stalked the presence of my dear Simon Gleudinning, that 
is noAV happy. I never saAV him plainer in my life than I did 
that moment ; he held up an ari-OAv as he passed me, and I 
SAvarf’d aAva Avi’ fright. Muck*e Avark there Avas to bring me to 
mysell again, and sair they tried to make me believe it AvaS a 
trick of Father Nicolas and Simon betAveen them, and that the 
arroAV Avas to signify Cupid’s shaft, as the Father called it ; and 
mony a time Simon Avad threep it to me after I Avas married — 
glide man, he liked not it should be said that he Avas seen out o’ 
the body ! — But mai’k the end o’ it, Tibb ; Ave Avere married, and 
the gray -goose Aving was the death o’ him after a !” 

“ As "it has been of OAver mony brave men,” said Tibb ; “ I Avish 
there Avasna sic a bird as a goose in the Avide AA'arld, forby the 
decking that Ave hae at the burn-side.” 

“ But tell me, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, “ Avhat does your 
ieddy aye do reading out o’ that thick black book Avi’ the silver 
clasps I — thei’e are oAver mony gude Avords in it to come frae ony 


THE MONASTERY. 


72 

body but a priest — An it were about Robin Hood, or some o’ 
David Lindsay’s ballants, ane wad ken better what to say to it. 
I am no misdoulRiug your mistress iiae way, but I wad like ill to 
liae a decent house haunted wi’ ghaists and gyre-carlines.” 

“Ye hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or ony thing she sa}s 
or does. Dame Glendinning,” said the faithful Tibb, something 
offended; “ and touching the bairn, it’s weel kend she was born 
on Hallowe’en was nine years gane, and they that are born on 
Hallowe’en whiles see mair than ither folk.” 

“ And that wad be the cause, then, that the bairn didna male 
muckle din about what it saw ? — if it had been my Halbert him- 
self, forby Edward, who is of softer nature, he Avad hae yammered 
the haill night of a constancy. But it’s like Mistress Mary has 
sic sights mair natural to her.” 

“ That may Aveel be,” said Tibb ; “ for on HalloAve’en she Avas 
born, as I tell ye, and our auld parish priest AV'ad fain hae had the 
night OAver, and All-HalloAV day begun. But for a’ that, the 
SAveet bairn is just like ither bairns, as ye may see youi’sell ; and 
except this blessed night, and ance before Avhen Ave Avere in that 
Aveary bog on the road here, I kenna that it saAV mair than ither 
folk.” 

“ But Avhat saAv she in the bog, then,” said Dame Glendinning, 
“ forby moor-cocks and heather-blutters ?” 

“ The Avean seav something like a Avhite leddy that Aveised us the 
gate,” said Tibb, “ Avhen Ave Avere like to hae perished in the 
moss-hags — certain it Avas that Shagram reisted, and I ken 
Martin thinks he saAv something.” 

“ And Avhat might the Avhite leddy be ?” said Elspeth ; “ haA'o 
ye ony guess o’ that ?” 

“ It ’s Aveel kend that. Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb ; “ if ye had 
liA'ed under grit folk, as I hae dune, ye Avadna be to seek in that 
matter.” 

“ I hae aye keepit my ain ha’ house abune my head,” said 
Elspeth, not Avithout emphasis, “ and if I havena li\'ed Avi’ grit 
folk, grit folk have lived Avi’ me.” 

“ Weel, Aveel, dame,” said Tibb, “your pardon’s prayed, there 
was nae offence meant. But ye maun ken the great ancient 
families canna be just served Avi’ the ordinary saunts, (praise to 
them !) like Saunt Anthony, Saunt Cuthbert, and the like, that 
come and gang at every sinner’s bidding, but they hae a sort of 
saunts or angels, or Avhat not, to themsells ; and as for the White 
Maiden of Avenel, she is kend oAver the haill country. And she 
is ave seen to yammer and Avail before ony o’ that family dies, as 
Avas weel kend by tAventy folk before the death of AValter Avenel, 
haly.be his cast !” 

“ If she CcMi do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, somewhat 
scornfully, “ they needna make mony a^oavs to her, I ti’OAV. Can 
she make nae better fend for them than that, and has naething 
better to do than Avait on them ?” ° 


THE MONASTERY. 


73 

Moiiy braw services can the White Maiden do for them to 
the boot of that, and has dune in the auld histories,” said Tibb, 
“ but I mind o’ naething in my day, except it was her that tho 
bairn saw in the bog.” 

‘^Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, rising and 
lighting the iron lamp, “ these are great privileges of your grand 
folk. But our Lady and Sauut Paul are good eiieugh saunts for 
me, and I’se warrant them never leave me in a bog that they can 
help me out o’, seeing I send four waxen candles to their chapels 
every Candlemas ; and if they are not seen to weep at my death, 
I’se warrant them smile at my joyful rising again, whilk Heaven 
send to all of us. Amen.” 

“Amen,” answered Tibb, devoutly; “and now it’s time I 
should hap up the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is ower 
low.” 

Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict of 
Simon Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a heedful and 
cautious glance all around the hall, to see that nothing was out ol 
its proper place ; then, wishing Tibb good-night, she retired to 
repose. 

“The deil’s in the carline,” said Tibb to herself, “ because she 
was the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself grandei’, I trow, 
than the bowerwoman of a lady of that ilk !” Having given vent 
to her suppi'essed spleen in this little ejaculation, Tibb also betook 
herself to slumber. 


CHAPTER V. 


A priest, ye cry, a priest ! — lame slieplicrds they, 

How shall they gatlier in the straggling flock ? 

Dumb dogs wliicli bark not — how sliall they compel 
The loitering vagrants to the IMaster’s fold ? 

Fitter to bask before the blazing fire, 

And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses, 

Than on the snow-wreath battle with tho wolf. 

Iti’/urmation. 

The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually decaying 
ever since her disaster. It seemed as if the few years which 
followed her husband’s death had done on her the woi’k of half a 
••entury. She lost the fresh elasticity of form, the colour and 
the mien of health, and became wasted, wan, and feeble. She 
appeared to have no formed complaint ; yet it was evident to those 
who looked on her, that her strength waned daily. Her lips at 
length became blenched and her eye dim; yet she spoke not of 
any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth Glendinning in her zeal 
could not refrain from touching upon a point which she deemed 
essential to salvation. Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly, 
and thanked her for it. 


THE MONASTERY. 


74 

" Tf any good priest would take the trouble of such a journey,” 
ehe said, “ he should be welcome ; for the prayers and lessons of 
the good must be at all times advantageous.” 

This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth Glendiii- 
ning wished or expected. She made up, however, by her own 
enthusiasm, for the lady’s want of eagerness to avail herself of 
ghostly counsel, and Martin was despatched with such haste as 
Shagram would make, to pray one of the religious men of Saint 
Mary’s to come up to administer the last consolations to the 
widow of Walter de Avenel. 

When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that 
the Lady of the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak 
health in the Tower of Glendearg, and desired the assistance of 
a father confessor, the lordly monk paused on the request. 

“ We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said ; “ a good knight 
and a valiant ; he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain by the 
Southron — May not the lady come hither to the sacrament of 
confession ? the road is distant and painful to travel.” 

“The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sacristan, 
“ and unable to bear the journey.” 

“ True — ay — yes — then must one of our brethren go to her 

— Knowest thou if she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter 
de Avenel ?” 

“ Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan ; “ she hath resided 
at Glendearg since her husband’s death, well-nigh on the charity 
of a poor widow, called Elspeth Glendinning.” 

“ Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country-side !” said 
the Abbot. “ Ho ! ho ! ho !” and he shook his portly sides at his 
own jest. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho !” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and tune 
in which an inferior applauds the jest of his superior. — Then 
added, witli a hypocritical snuffle, and a sly twinkle of his eye, 
“ It is our duty, most holy father, to comfort the widow — He ! 
he ! he !” 

This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot should put. 
his sanction on the jest. 

“Ho! ho!” said the Abbot ;“ tlien, to leave jesting. Father 
Philip, take thou thy riding gear, and go to confess this Dame 
Avenel.” 

“ But,” said the Sacristan — ^ 

“ Give me no Buts; neither But nor If pass between monk and 
Abbot, Father Philip ; the bands of discipline must not be relaxed 

— heresy gathers force like a snow-ball — the multitude expect 
confessions and preachings from the Benedictine, as they would 
from so many beggarly friars — and we may not desert the vine- 
yard, though the toil be grievous unto us.” 

“ And with so little advantage to the Holy monastery,” said the 
Sacristan. 

“ True, Father Philip ; but wot you not that what preventetb 


THE MONASTERY. 


76 

harm doth good ? This Julian do Avenel lives a light and evil 
life, and should we neglect the widow of her brother, he might 
foray our lands, and we never able to shew who hurt us — more- 
over it is our duty to an ancient family, who, in their day, have 
been benefactors to the Abbey. Away with thee instantly, brother; 
ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let men see how 
diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are in the exe- 
cution of their spiritual duty — toil not deterring them, for the 
glen is five miles in length — fear not withholding them, for it 
is said to be haunted* of spectres — nothing moving them from 
pursuit of their spiritual calling ; to the confusion of calumnious 
heretics, and the comfort and edification of all true and faithful 
sons of the Catholic Church. I wonder what our brother Eustace 
will say to this ?” 

Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which 
he was to encounter, and the fame which he was to acquire, (both 
by proxy,) the Abbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon in the 
refectory, and the Sacristan, with no very good will, accompanied 
old Martin in his return to Glendearg ; the greatest impediment 
in the journey being the trouble of restraining his pampered mule, 
that slie might tread in something like an equal pace with poor 
jaded Shagram. 

, After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the monk 
returned moody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had 
placed for the honoured guest some refreshment in the hall, was 
struck with the embarrassment which appeared in his countenance. 
Elspeth watched him with great anxiety. She observed there was 
that on his brow which rather resembled a person come from 
hearing the confession of some enormous crime, than the look of 
a confessor who resigns a reconciled penitent, not to earth, but to 
heaven. After long hesitating, she could not at length refrain 
from hazarding a question. She was sure, she said, the leddy had 
made an easy shrift. Five years had they resided together, and 
she could safely say, no woman lived better. 

“Woman,” said the Sacristan, seemly, “thon speakest thou 
knowest not what — What avails clearing the outside of the plat- 
ter, if the inside be foul with heresy ?” 

“ Our dishes and trenchers arc not so clean as they could bo 
wished, holy father,” said Elspeth, but half understanding what 
he said, and beginning with her apron to wipe the dust from the 
plates, of which she supposed him to complain. 

“ Forbear, Dame Elspeth,” said the monk ; “ your plates are as 
clean as wooden trend lers and pewter fiagons can well be ; the 
foulness of which I speak is of that pestilential heresy which is 
daily becoming ingrained in this our Holy Church of Scotland, 
and as a canker-worm in the rose-garland of the Spouse.” 

“ Holy Mother of Heaven !” said Dame Elspeth, crossing her- 
self, “ have I kept house with a heretic 1” 

“No, Elspeth, no,” replied the monk; “it were too strong a 


THE MONASTERY. 


7G 

speech for me to make of this iinliappy lady, but I would I could 
say she is free from heretical opinions. Alas ! they ily about like 
the pestilence by noon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of 
the flock ! For it is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been 
high in judgment as in rank.” 

“ And she can write and read, I had almost said, as wool as 
your reverence,” said Elspeth. 

“ Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read 1” said the 
monk, eagerly. 

“ Nay,” replied Elspeth, “ I cannot say I ever saw her write at 
all, but her maiden that was — she now serves the family — .says 
she can write — And for reading, she has often read to us good 
things out of a thick black volume with silver clasps.” 

“ Let me see it,” said the monk, hastily, “ on your allegiance as 
a true vassal — on your faith as a Catholic Christian — instantly 
— instantly let me see it.” 

The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the 
confessor took up her information ; and being moreover of opi- 
nion, that what so good a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so 
devoutly, could not be of a tendency actually evil. But borne down 
by the clamour, exclamations, and something like threats used 
by Father Philip, she at length bi’ought him the fatal volume. It 
was easy to do this without suspicion on the part of the owner, as 
she lay on her bed exhausted with the fatigue of a long conferenco 
with her confessor, and as the small round, or turret closet, in 
which was the book and her other trifliug property, was accessible 
by another door. Of all her effects the book was the last she 
would have thought of securing, for of what use or interest could 
it be in a family who neither read themselves, nor were in the 
habit of seeing any who did ? so that Dame Elspeth had no difii- 
culty in possessing herself of the volume, although her heart all 
the while accused her of an ungenerous and an inhospitable part 
towards her friend and inmate. The double power of a landlord 
and a feudal superior was before her eyes ; and to say truth, the 
boldness, with which she might otherwise have resisted this double 
authority, was, I grieve to say it, much qualified by the curiosity 
she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, to have some explanation 
respecting the mysterious volume which the lady cherished with 
so much care, yet whose contents she imparted with such caution. 
For never had Alice of Avenel read them any passage from the 
book in question until the iron door of the tower was locked, 
and all possibility of intrusion prevented. Even then she had 
shewn, by the selection of particular passages, that she was 
more anxious to impress on their minds the principles which 
the volume contained, than to introduce them to it as a new rule 
of faith. 

When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed the book 
in the monk’s hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, 

Now, by mine order, it is as T suspected ! — My mule, my mule ! 


THE MONASTERY. 77 

— I will abide no longer here — well hast thou done, dame, in 
placing in iny hands this pei-ilous volume.” 

Is it then witchcraft or devil’s work ?” said Dame Elspeth, in 
great agitation. 

“ Nay, God forbid !” said the monk, signing himself with the 
cross, “ it is the Holy Scripture. But it is rendered into the vul- 
gar tongue, and therefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic 
Church, unfit to be in the hands of any lay person.” 

“ And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our common 
salvation,” said Elspeth. “ Good father, you must instruct mine 
ignorance better ; but lack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and 
truly, to my poor thinking, I should be glad to read the Holy 
Scripture.” 

“ I daresay thou Avouldst,” said the monk ; “and even thus did 
our mother Eve seek to have knowledge of good and evil, and 
thus Sin came into the world, and Death by Sin.” 

“ I am sure, and it is true,” said Elspeth. “ Oh, if she had 
dealt by the counsel of Saint Peter and Saint Paul !” 

“If she had reverenced the command of Heaven,” said the 
monk, “which, as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, fixed 
upon the grant such conditions as best corresponded with its 
holy pleasure. I tell thee, Elspeth, the Word slayeth — that is, 
tlie text alone, read with unskilled eye and unhallowed lips, is 
like those strong medicines which sick men take by the advice of 
the learned. Such patients recover and thrive ; while those 
dealing in them at their own hand, shall perish by their own 
deed.” 

“ Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor tvoman, “ your reve- 
rence knows best.” 

“ Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as he 
thought could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary’s, — 
“ Not I, but the Holy Father of Christendom, and our own holy 
father tlie Lord Abbot, know best. I, the poor Sacristan of Saint 
Mary’s, can but repeat what I hear from other’s my superiors. 
Yet of this, good woman, be assured, — the Word — the mere 
Word, slayeth. But the church hath her ministers to gloze and 
to expound the same unto her faithful congregation ; and this I 
say, not so much, my beloved brethren — I mean, my beloved 
sister,” (for the Sacristan, had got unto the end of one of his old 
sermons,) — “ This I speak not so much of the rectors, curates, 
and secular clergy, so called because they live after the fashion of 
flic seculum or age, unbound by those ties which sequestrate us 
from the world ; neither do I speak this of the mendicant friars, 
whether black or gi’ay, -whether crossed or uncrossed ; but of tho 
Monks, and especially of the Monks Benedictine, reformed on the 
rule of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of 
which Monks, Christian brethren — sister, I would say — great is 
the happiness and glory of the country in possessing the holy 
ministers of Saint Mary’s, wdiercof I, though an unworthy 


THE MONASTERY. 


78 

bi’other, may say it hath produced more saints, more bishops, 
more popes^ — may our patrons make us thankful ! — than any holy 

foundation in Scotland. Wherefore But I see Martin hath 

my mule in readiness, and I will but salute you with the kiss of 
sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my 
toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil 
spirits which haunt it. Moreover, I may arrive too late at the 
bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take the river, which I 
observed to be somewhat waxen.” 

Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was con- 
founded by the rapidity of his utterance, and the doctrine he 
gave forth, and by no means easy on the subject of the book', 
which her conscience told her she should not have communicated 
to any one, without the knowledge of its owner. 

Notwithstanding the haste which the monk as well as his mule 
made to I’eturn to better quarters than they had left at the head 
of Glendearg ; notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip 
had to be the very first who should acquaint the Abbot that a 
copy of the book they most dreaded had been found within the 
Halidome, or patrimony of the Abbey ; notwithstanding, more- 
over, certain feelings which induced him to hurry as fast as 
possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still the 
difficulties of the road, and the rider’s want of habitude of quick- 
motion, were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had 
nearly cleared the narrow valley. 

It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the vale were 
so near, that at every double of the river the shadows from the 
western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the eastern bank ; 
the thickets of copsewood, seemed to wave with a portentous 
agitation of boughs and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs 
seemed higher and grimmer than they had appeared to the monk 
while he was travelling in daylight, and in company. Father 
I’hilip was heartily rejoiced, when, emerging from the narrow 
glen, he gained the open valley of the Tweed, which held on its 
majestic course from current to pool, and from pool stretched 
away to other currents, with a dignity peculiar to itself amongst 
the Scottish rivers ; for whatever may have been the drought of 
the season, the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks, 
seldom lea\ung those extensive sheets of shingle which deform 
the margins of many of the celebrated Scottish streams. 

The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not re- 
garded as deserving of notice, was nevertheless, like a prudent 
general, pleased to find himself out of the narrow glen in which 
the enemy might have stolen upon him unperceived. He drew 
up his bridle, reduced his mule to her natural and luxm’ious 
amble, instead of the agitating and broken trot at which, to his 
no small inconvenience, she had hitherto proceeded, and, wiping 
his brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broad moon, which, now 
mingling with the lights of evening, was rising over field and 


THF, MONASTERY. 79 

forest, village aud fortalice, and, above all, over the stately 
l\i luastery, seen far and dim amid the yellow light. 

Tile worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk’s appre- 
hension, was, that the Monastery stood on the opposite side of the 
river, and that of the many fine bridges which have since been 
built across that classical stream, not one then existed. There 
was, however, in recompense, a bridge then standing which has 
since disappeared, although its ruins may still be traced by the 
curious. 

It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments were 
built on either side of the river, at a part where the stream 
was peculiarly contracted. Upon a rock in the centre of the 
current was built a solid piece of masonry, constructed like the 
pier of a bridge, and presenting, like a pier, an angle to the cur- 
rent of the stream. The masonry continued solid until the pier 
rose to a level with the two abutments: upon either side, and from 
thence the building rose in the form of a tower. The lower story 
of tliis tower consisted only of an archway or passage through the 
building, over either entrance to which hung a drawbridge with 
counterpoises, either of which, when dropped, connected the 
archway with the opposite abutment, where the farther end of 
the drawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, 
the passage over the river was complete. 

The bridge-keeper, who was the dependant of a neighbouring 
baron, resided with his family in the second and third stories of 
the tower, which, when both drawbridges were raised, formed an 
Insulated fortalice in the midst of the river. He was entitled to a 
small toll or custom for the passage, concerning the amount of 
which disputes sometimes arose between him and the passengers. 
It is needless to say, that the bridge-ward had usually the better 
in these questions, since he could at pleasure detain the traveller 
on the opposite side ; or, suffering him to pass half way, might 
keep him prisoner in his tower till they were agreed on the rate 
of pontage. * 

But it was most frequently with the IMonks of Saint Mary’s 
that the warder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men 
insisted for, and at length obtoined, a right of gratuitous passage 
to themselves, greatly to the discontent of the bridge-keeper. 
But when they demanded the same immunity for the numerous 
pilgrims who visited the shrine, the bridge-keeper waxed restive, 
and was supported by his lord in his resistance. The controversy 
grew animated on both sides ; the Abbot menaced excommunica- 
tion, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable to retaliate in 
kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross and recross 
the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would accommodate 
them with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, ami would 
have proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable 
for man and horse in ordinary weather. 

* Bee Note C. Drawbridge at Bridge-end. 


THE MONASTERY. 


80 

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when 
Father Philip approaciied this bridge, the singular construction of 
which gives a curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The 
river was not in flood, but it was above its ordinary level — a 
heavy water, as it is called in that country, through which the 
monk had no particular inclination to ride, if he could manage 
the matter better. 

“Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising his 
A-^oice ; “ my very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower 
the drawbridge. Peter, I say, dost thou not hear % — it is thy 
gossip. Father Philip, who calls thee.” 

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bargain ; 
but, as he had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy 
in his dispute with the convent, he Avent quietly to bed, after 
reconnoitring the monk through his loop-hole, observing to his 
Avife, that “ riding the Avater in a moonlight night Avould do the 
Sacristan no harm, and Avould teach him the value of a brig the 
neist time, on whilk a man might pass high and di-y, Avinter and 
summer, flood and ebb.” 

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and thi'eats, Avhich 
Avere equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he Avas called, 
Father Philip at length moved doAvn the river to take the ordinary 
ford at the head of the next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy 
of Peter, he began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the 
])assage of the river by the ford was not only safe, but pleasant. 
The banks and scattered trees Avere so beautifully reflected from 
the bosom of the dark stream, the A\diole cool and delicious picture 
formed so pleasing a contrast to his late agitation, to the-Avarmth 
occasioned by his vain endeavours to move the relentless porter 
of the bridge, that the result Avas rather agreeable than other- 
Avise. 

As Father Philip came close to the AV'ater’s edge, at the spot 
where he Avas to enter it, there sat a female under a lai’ge broken 
scathed oak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, Aveep- 
ing, Avringing her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of 
the river. Tlie monk Avas struck Avith astonishment to see a female 
there at that time of night. But he Avas, in all honest service, 
— and if a step farther, I put it upon his oAvn conscience, — a 
devoted squire of dames. After observing the maiden for a 
moment, although she seemed to take no notice of his presence 
he Avas moved by her distress, and Avilling to offer his assistance. 
“ Damsel,” said he, “ thou seeniest in no ordinary distress; perad- 
venture, like myself, thou hast been refused passage at the bridge 
by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee either 
for performance of a voav, or some other Aveighty charge.” 

The maiden uttei’ed some inarticulate sounds, looked at the 
river, and then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father 
Philip at that instant, that a Highland Chief of distinction had 
been for some time expected to pay his A'Oavs at the shrine of 


THE MONASTERY. 


SI 

Saint Mary’s ; and that possibly this fair maiden might be one 
of his family, travelling alone for accomplishment of a vow, or 
left behind by some accident, to whom, therefore, it would be but 
right and prudent to use every civility in his power, especially as 
she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland tongue. Such at 
least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever known to assign 
for his courtesy ; if there was any other, I once more refer it to 
his own conscience. 

To express himself by signs, the common language of all 
nations, the cautious Sacristan tirst pointed to the river, then to 
his mule’s crupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a 
sign to induce the fair solitary to mount behind him. She seemed 
to understand his meaning, for she rose up as if to accept his 
offer ; and while the good monk, who, as we have hinted, was no 
great cavalier, laboured, Vvith the pressure of the right leg and 
the use of the left rein, to place his mule with her side to the bank 
in such a position that the lady might mount with case, she rose 
from the ground with rather portentous activity, and at one 
bound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much the firmer 
rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of 
this double burden ; she bounded, bolted, and would soon have 
thrown Father Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a 
firm hand detained him in the saddle. 

At length the restive brute changed her humour ; and, from 
refusing to budge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose home- 
ward, and dashed into the ford as fast as she could scamper. A 
new terror now invaded the monk’s mind — the ford seemed un- 
usually deep, the water eddied off in strong ripple from the 
counter of the mule, and began to rise upon her side. Philip 
lost his presence of mind, which was at no time his most I’eady 
attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, and as 
the rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the river, 
she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once, and 
began to swim with her head down the stream. And what was 
sufficiently strange, at the same moment, notwithstanding the 
extreme peril, the damsel began to sing, thereby inertasing, if any 
tiling could increase, the bodily fear of the worthy Sacristan. 

I. 

JMerrily swim we, the moon shines briglit, 

Roth current and ripple are dancing in light. 

We have roused the night raven, I licard him croak, 

As we plashed along beneath the oak 

That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, 

Tlieir shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. 

“ Wlio wakens my nestlings,” the raven he said, 

“ My beak shall eVe morn in his blood be red, 

For a blue swoln corpse is a dainty meal. 

And I ’ll have iny share with the pike and the eels." 

II. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 

There ’s a golden gleam on the distant height ; 

F 


X. 


82 


THE MONASTERY 


There ’s a silver shower on the alders dank, 

And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. 

I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, 

It is all astir for the vesper hour ; 

The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell. 

Hut where ’s Father Philip, should toll the bell ? 

III. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 

Downward we drift through shadow and light, 

Under yon rock the eddies sleep, 

Calm and silent, dark and deep, 

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool. 

He has lighted his candle of death and of dool 
Look, Father, look, and you ’ll laugh to see 
IIow he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee ! 

IV. 

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night ? 

A man of mean or a man of might ? 

Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove, 

Or lover who crosses to visit his love ? 

Hark ! heard ye the Keply reply, as we pass’d. — 

“ God’s blessing on the warder, he lock’d the bridge last! 

All that come to my cove are sunk, 

Priest or layman, lover or monk.” 

How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where 
the terrified monk’s journey might have ended, is uncertain. As 
she sung the last stanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad 
tranquil sheet of water, caused by a strong wear or damhead, 
running across the river, which dashed in a broad cataract over 
the barrier. The mule, whether from choice, or influenced by 
the suction of the curient, made towards the cut intended to 
supply the convent mills, and entered it half swimming half 
wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in the saddle 
at a fearful rate. 

As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became 
loose, and in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume 
of the Lady of Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had 
he grasped it, than his companion pitched him out of the saddle 
into the stream, where, still keeping ner hand on his collai’, she 
gave him two or three good souses in the watery fluid, so as to 
ensure that every other part of him had its share of wetting, and 
then quitted her hold when he was so near the side that by a 
slight effort (of a great one he was incapable) he might scramble 
on shore. This accordingly he accomplished, and turning his 
eyes to see what had become of his extraordinary companion, she 
was nowhere to be seen ; but still he heard, as if from the surface 
of the river, and mixing with the noise of the water breaking over 
the damhead, a fragment of her wild song, which seemed to run 
thus : — 


lianded — landed! the black book hath won, 

Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun ! 
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 

For seldom they land that go swimming with me. 


THE MONASTERY. 


83 

The ecstasy of the monk’s terror could he endured no longer ; 
his head grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward 
and running himself against a wall, he sunk down in a state of 
insensibility. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Now let us sit in conclave. Tliat tliesc weeds 
Be rooted from the vineyard of the church, 

That these foul tares be sever’d from the wheat, 

We are, I trust, agreed. — Yet how tp do this, 

Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants. 

Craves good advisement. 

The Reformation. 

The vesper service in the Monastery Church of Saint Mary’s 
was now over. The Abbot had disrobed himself of his magni- 
ficent vestures of ceremony, and resumed his ordinary habit, 
which was a black gown, worn over a white cassock, with a 
narrow scapulary ; a decent and venerable dress, which was 
well calculated to set off to advantage the portly mien of Abbot 
Boniface. 

In quiet times no one could have filled the state of a mitred 
Abbot, for such was his dignity, more respectably than this 
worthy prelate. He had, no doubt, many of those habits of self- 
indulgence which men are apt to acquire who live for themselves 
alone. He was vain, moreover ; and when boldly confronted, 
had sometimes shewn symptoms of timidity, not very consistent 
with the high claims which he preferred as an eminent member 
of the church, or with the punctual deference which he exacted 
from his religious brethren, and all who were placed under his 
command. But he was hospitable, charitable, and by no means 
of himself disposed to pi'oceed with severity against any one. In 
short, he would in other times have slumbered out his term of 
preferment with as much credit as any other “ purple Abbot,” 
who lived easily, but at the same time decorously — slept soundly, 
and did not disquiet himself with dreams. 

But the wide alarm spread through the whole Church of Rome 
by the progress of the reformed doctrines, sorely disturbed the 
repose of Abbot Boniface, and opened to liim a wide field of duties 
and cares which he had never so much as dreamed of. There 
were opinions to be combated and refuted — pi*actices to be in- 
quired into — heretics to be detected and punished — the fallen off 
to be reclaimed — the wavex’ing to be confirmed — scandal to be 
removed from the clergy, and the vigour of discipline to be re- 
established. Post upon post arrived at tlie Monastery of Sfc 
Mary’s — horses reeking, and riders exhausted — this from the 
Pi’ivy Council, that from the Primate of Scotland, and this other 
again from the Queen Mother, e:;!icrting, ai^proving, coiidemniug, 


THE MONASTERY. 


84 

requesting advice upon this subject, and requiring information 
upon that. 

These missives Abbot Boniface received with an important air 
of helplessness, or a helpless air of importance, whichever the 
reader may please to term it, evincing at once gratified vanity, 
and profound trouble of mind. 

The sharp-witted Primate of Saint Andrews had foreseen the 
deficiencies of the Abbot of St Mary’s, and endeavoured to pro- 
vide for them by getting admitted into his Monastery as Sub-Prior 
a brother Cistercian, a man of parts and knowledge, devoted to 
the service of the Catholic church, and very capable not only to 
advise the Abbot on occasions of difficulty, but to make him 
sensible of his duty in case he should, from good-nature or timi- 
dity, be disposed to shrink from it. 

Father Eustace played the same part in the Monastery as tlic 
old general who, in foreign armies, is placed at the elbow of the 
Prince of the Blood, who nominally commands in chief, on condi- 
■ tion of attempting nothing without the advice of his dry-nurse ; 
and he shared the fate of all such dry-nurses, being heartily dis- 
liked as w'ell as feared by his principal. Still, however, the 
Primate’s intention was fully answered. Father Eustace became 
the constant theme and often the bugbear of the worthy Abbot, 
who hardly dared to turn himself in his bed w'ithout considering 
what Father Eustace would tliink of it. In every case of difii- 
eulty. Father hjustace was summoned, and his opinion asked; and 
no sooner was the embari’assment removed, than the Abbot’s next 
thought was how to get rid of his adviser. In every letter which 
he w'rote to those in power, he recommended Father Eustace to 
some high church preferment, a bishopric or an abbey ; and as 
they dropped one after another, and were otherwise conferred, he 
began to think, as he confessed to the Sacristan in the bitterness 
of his spii'it, that the Monastery of St Mary’s had got a life-rent 
lease of their Sub-Prior. 

Yet more indignant he w'ould have been, had he suspected that 
Father Eustace’s ambition was fixed upon his own mitre, which, 
from some attacks of an apoplectic nature, deemed by the Abbot’s 
friends to be more serious than by himself, it was supposed might 
be shortly vacant. But the confidence which, like other dignita- 
ries, he reposed in his own health, prevented Abbot Boniface from 
imagining that it held any concatenation with the motions of 
Father Eustace. 

The necessity under which he found himself of consulting v/ith 
his grand adviser, in cases of real difficulty, rendered the worthy 
Abbot particularly desirous of doing without him in all ordinary 
cases of administration, though not without considering wdiat 
Father Eustace would have said of the matter. He scorned, 
therefore, to give a hint to the Sub-Prior of the bold stroke by 
which he had despatched Brother Philip to Gleudearg ; but when 
the vespers came without his re-appearance he became a little 


THE MONASTERY. 


85 

luieasy, the more as other matters weighed upon his mind. The 
feud with the warder or keeper of tlie bridge threatened to be 
attended with bad consequences, as the man’s quarrel was taken 
up by the martial baron under whom he served ; and pressing 
letters of an unpleasant tendency had just arrived from the 
Primate. Like a gouty man, Avho catches hold of his crutch 
while he curses the infirmity that reduces him to use it, the 
Abbot, however reluctant, found himself obliged to require 
Eustace’s presence, after the service was over, in his house, or 
rather palace, which was attached to, and made part of, the 
Monastery. 

Abbot Boniface was seated in his high-backed chair, the gro- 
tesque carved back of which terminated in a mitre, before a fh'e 
where two or three large logs were reduced to one red glowing 
mass of charcoal. At his elbow, on an oaken stand, stood the 
remains of a roasted capon, on which his reverence had made his 
evening meal, flanked by a goodly stoup of Bourdeaux of excel- 
lent flavour. He was gazing indolently on the fire, partly 
engaged in meditation on his past and present fortunes, partly 
occupied by endeavouring to trace towers and steeples in the I’ed 
embers. 

“ Yes,” thought the Abbot to himself, “in that red perspective 
I could fancy to myself the peaceful towei’s of Dundrennan, whore 
I passed my life ere I was called to pomp and to trouble. A quiet 
brotherhood we were, regular in our domestic duties ; and when 
the frailties of humanity prevailed over us, we confessed, and 
were absolved by each other, and the most formidable part of the 
penance was the jest of the convent on the culprit. I can almost 
fancy that I see the cloister garden, and the pear-trees which I 
grafted with my own hands. And for what have J changed all 
this, but to be overwhelmed with business which concerns me not, 
to be called My Lord Abbot, and to be tutoi’ed by Father 
Eustace ? I would these towers were the Abbey of Aberbroth- 
wick, and Father Eustace the Abbot, — or 1 would he were in 
the fire on any terms, so I were rid of him ! The Primate says 
our Holy Father the Pope hath an adviser — I am sure ho could 
not live a week with such a one as mine. Then there is no 
learning what Father Eustace thinks till you confess your own 
difficulties — No hint will bring forth his opinion — he is like a 
miser, who will not unbuckle his purse to bestow a farthing, until 
the wretch who needs it has owned his excess of poverty, and 
wrung out the boon by importunity. And thus I am dishonoured 
in the eyes of my religious brethren, who behold me treated like 
a child which hath no sense of its own — I will bear it no longer I 
— Brother Bennet,” — (a lay brother answered to his call) — • 
“ tell Father Eustace that I need not his presence.” 

“ I came to say to your I’cvcrence, that the holy father is 
entering even now from the cloisters.” 

“Be it so,” said the Abbot, “ho is welcome, — remove these 


THE MONASTERY. 


86 

things — or rather, place a trencher, the holy father may be a 
little hungry — yet, no — remove them, for there is no good 
fellowship in him — Let the stoup of wine remain, however, and 
place another cup,” 

The lay brother obeyed these contradictory commands in the 
way he judged most seemly — he removed the carcass of the half- . 
sacked capon, and placed two goblets beside the stoup of Bour • 
deaux. At the same instant entered Father Eustace. 

He was a thin, sharp-faced, slight-made little man, whose keen 
gi’ay eyes seemed almost to look through the person to whom he 
addressed himself. His body was emaciated not only with the 
fasts which he observed with rigid punctuality, but also by the 
active and unwearied exercise of his sharp and piercing intel- 
lect ; — 

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretted the ouny body to decay. 

And o’er-iiiforin’d the tenement of clay. 

He turned with conventual reverence to the Lord Abbot ; and 
as they stood together, it was scarce possible to see a more com- 
plete difference of form and expression. The good-natured rosy 
face and laughing eye of the Abbot, which even his present 
anxiety could not greatly ruffle, was a wonderful contrast to the 
thin pallid cheek and quick penetrating glance of the monk, in 
which an eager and keen spirit glanced through eyes to which it 
seemed to give supernatural lustre. 

The Abbot opened the conversation by motioning to his monk 
to take a stool, and inviting to a cup of wine. ^I'lie courtesy was 
declined with respect, yet not without a remark, that the vesper- 
service was past. 

“ For the stomach’s sake, brother,” said the Abbot, colouring 
a little — “ you know the text.” 

It is a dangerous one,” answered the monk, “ to handle 
alone, or at late hours. Cut off from human society, the juice of 
the grape becomes a perilous companion of solitude, and therefore 
I ever shun it.” 

Abbot Boniface had poured himself out a goblet which might 
hold about half an English pint ; but, either struck with the 
truth of the observation, or ashamed to act in direct opposition to 
it, he suffered it to remain untasted before him, and immediately 
changed the subject. 

“ The Primate hath written to us,” said he, “ to make strict search 
within our bounds after the heretical persons denounced in this 
list, who have withdrawn themselves from the justice which their 
opinions deserve. It is deemed probable that they will attempt 
to retire to England by our Borders, and the Primate requireth 
me to watch with vigilance, and what not.” 

“ Assuredly,” said the monk, “ the magistrate should not bear 
the sword in vain — those be they that turn the world upside 
down — and doubtless your I'everend wisdom will with due dili • 


THE MOXASTERY. 87 

gence second the exertions of the Riglit Reverend Father in God, 
being in the peremptory defence of the Holy Church.” 

“ Ay, but how is this to be done answered the Abbot ; 

Saint Mary aid us ! The Primate writes to me as if I were 
a temporal baron — a man under command, liaving soldiers under 
him ! He says, send forth — scour the country — guard the 
passes — Truly these men do not travel as those who would give 
their lives for nothing — the last who went south passed the dry- 
march at the Ridingburn with an escort of thirty spears, as our 
reverend brother the Abbot of Kelso did write unto us. How 
are cowls and scapularies to stop the way ?” 

“Your bailiff is account>^d a good man-at-arms, holy father,” 
said Eustace ; “ your vassals are obliged to rise for the defence of 
the Holy Kirk — it is the tenure on which they hold their lands 

— if they will not come forth for the Church which gives them 
bread, let their possessions be given to others.” 

“ W e shall not be wanting,” said the Abbot, collecting himself 
with importance, “ to do whatever may advantage Holy Kirk — 
thyself shall hear the charge to our Bailiff and our officials — but 
here again is our controversy with the warden of the bridge and 
the Baron of Meigallot — Saint Mary ! vexations do so mul- 
tiply upon the House, and upon the generation, that a man wots 
not where to turn to ! Thou didst say. Father Eustace, thou 
wouldst look into our evidents touching this free passage for the 
pilgrims 1” 

“ I have looked into the Chartulary of the House, holy father,” 
said Eustace, “ and therein I find a written and formal grant of 
all duties and customs payable at the drawbridge of Brigton, not 
only by ecclesiastics of this foundation, but by every pilgrim truly 
designed to accomplish his vows at this House, to the Abbot 
Ailford, and the Monks of the House of Saint Mary in Kenna- 
quhair, from that time and for ever. The deed is dated on Saint 
firidget’s Even, in the year of Redemption, 1137, and bears the 
sign and seal of the granter, Charles of Meigallot, great-great- 
gi-andfather of this baron, and purports to be granted for the 
safety of his own soul, and for the weal of the souls of his father 
and mother, and of all his predecessors and successors, being 
Barons of Meigallot.” 

“ But he alleges,” said the Abbot, “ that the bridge-wards have 
been in poSsession of these dues, and have rendered them avail- 
able for more than fifty years — and the baron threatens violence 

— meanwhile, the journey of the pilgrims is interrupted, to the 
prejudice of their own souls and the diminution of the revenues 
of Saint Mar-y. The Sacristan advised us to put on a boat ; but 
the warden, whom thou knowest to be a godless man, has sworn 
the devil tear him, but that if they put on a boat on the laird^s 
stream, he will rive her board from board — and then some say 
we should compound the claim for a small sum in silver.” Here 
the Abbot paused a moment for a reply, but receiving none, be 


8S 


THE .MOXASTEJIY. 


aildcd, “But what tliinkcst tliou, Father Ihistacc! why art tliou 
silent V’ 

“ Because I am surprised at the question whicli the Lord Abbot 
of Saint Mary’s asks at the youngest of Ins brethren.” 

“ Youngest in time of your abode with us, Brother Eustace,” 
said the Abbot, “ not youngest in years, or 1 tliink in experience 

— Sub-Prior also of this convent.” 

“ I am astonished,” continued Eustace, “ that the Abbot of this 
venerable house should ask of any one whether he can alienate 
the patrimony of our holy and divine patroness, or give up to an 
unconscientious, and perhaps a heretic baron, the rights conferred 
on this church by his devout progenitor. Popes and councils alike 
prohibit it — the honour of the living, and the weal of departed 
souls, alike forbid it — it may not be. To force, if lie dare use it, 
we must surrender ; but never by our consent should we see the 
goods of the church jdundered, with as little scruple as he would 
drive off a herd of English beeves. Rouse yourself, reverend 
father, and doubt nothing but that the good cause shall prevail. 
Whet the spiritual sword, and direct it against the wicked who 
would usurp our holy rights. AVhet the temporal sword if it 
be necessary, and stir up the courage and zeal of your loyal 
vassals.” 

The Abbot sighed deeply. “ All this,” he said, “is soon spoken 

by him who hath to act it not; but ” He was interrupted 

by the entrance of Bonnet rather hastily. “ The mule on wliich 
the Sacristan had set out in the morning had returned,” he said, 
“ to the convent stable all over wet, and with the saddle turned 
round beneath her belly.” 

“ Sancta Maria !” said the Abbot, “ our dear brother hath 
perished by the way !” 

“It may not be,” said Eustace hastily — “ let the bell be tolled 

— cause the bretlu*en to get torches — alarm the village — hurry 
down to the river — T myself will be the foremost.” 

The real Abbot stood astonished and agape, when at once he 
beheld his office filled, and saw all which he ought to have ordered, 
going forward at the dictates of the youngest monk in the con- 
vent. But ere the orders of Eustace, which nobody dreamed of 
disputing, were carried into execution, the necessity was pre- 
vented by the sudden apparition of the Sacristan, whose supposed 
danger excited all the alarm. 


THE MONASTERY. 


89 


CHAPTER VTI. 

Rase out t!ic written troubles of tlie brain. 

Cleanse the foul bosom of the perilous stuff 

That weighs upon the heart. 

Macbeth. 

WiiAT betwixt cold and fright the afflicted Sacristan stood 
before his Superior, propped on the fx’iendly arm of the convent 
miller, drenched with water, and scarce able to utter a syllable. 

After various attempts to speak, the first words he uttered 
uere, 

“Swim wc merrily — the moon shines bright.” 

“ Swim we merrily !” retorted the Abbot indignantly ; “ a 
tneri’y night have ye chosen for swimming, and a becoming sahi- 
Ritiou to your Superior !” 

“ Our brother is bewildered,” said Eustace ; — speak. Father 
Philip, how is it with you 1” 

“ Good luclc to your fishing,” 

continued the Sacristan, making a most dolorous attempt at the 
tune of his strange companion. 

“ Good luck to your fishing !” repeated the Abbot, still more 
surprised' and displeased ; “ by my halidome he is drunken with 
wine, and comes to our presence with his jolly catches in his 
throat ! If bread and water can cure this folly ” 

“ With your pardon, venerable father,” said the Sub-Prior, 

of water our brother has had enough ; and methinks, the con- 
fusion of his eye is rather that of terror, than of aught unbc' 
coming his profession. Where did you find him. Hob Miller ?” 

“ An it please your reverence, I did but go to shut the sluice 
of the mill — and as I was going to shut the sluice, I heard some- 
thing groan near to me; but judging it was one of Giles Fletcher’s 
hogs — for so please you, he never shuts his gate — I caught up my 
lever, and was about — Saint Mary forgive me ! — to strike where 
1 heard the sound, when, as the saints would have it, I heard the 
second gi’oan just like that of a living man. So I called up my 
knaves, and found the Father Sacristan lying wet and senseless 
under the wall of our kiln. So soon as we brought him to him- 
self a bit, he prayed to be broxight to your reverence, but I doubt 
me his wits have gone a bell-wavering by thp road. It was but 
now that he spoke in somewhat better form.” 

“ Well !” said Brother Eustace, “ thou hast done well. Hob 
Miller ; only begone now, and remember a second time to pause, 
ere you strike in the dark.” 

“ Please your reverence, it shall be a lesson to me,” said the 
miller, “ not to mistake a holy man for a hog again, so long as I 


f)0 


THE MONASTERY. 


live.” And, making a bow, with profound humility, the miller 
withdrew. 

“ And now that this churl is gone. Father Philip,” said Eustace, 
“ wilt thou tell our venerable Superior what ails thee 1 art thou 
Tina gramtus, man ? if so, we will have thee to thy cell.” 

“ Water ! water ! not wine,” muttered the exhausted Sacristan. 

‘^Nay,” said the monk, “ if that be thy complaint, wine may 
perhaps cure thee ;” and he reached him a cup, which the patient 
drank off to his great benefit. 

And now,” said the Abbot, “ let his garments be changed, or 
rather let him be carried to the infirmary ; for it will prejudice 
our health, should we hear his narrative while he stands there, 
steaming like a rising hoar-frost.” 

“ I will hear his adventure,” said Eustace, “ and report it to 
your reverence.” And, accordingly, he attended the Sacristan to 
his cell. In about half an hour he i-eturned to the Abbot. 

“ How is it with Father Philip ?” said the Abbot; “and through 
what came he into such a state 

“ He comes from Glendearg, reverend sir,” said Eustace ; “and 
for the rest, he telleth such a legend, as has not been heard in 
this Monastery for many a long day.” He then gave the Abbot 
the outlines of the Sacristan’s adventures in the homeward jour- 
ney, and added, that for some time he was inclined to think his 
brain was infirm, seeing he had sung, laughed, and wept, all in 
the same breath. 

“ A wonderful thing it is to us,” said the Abbot, “ that Satan 
has been permitted to put forth his hand thus far on one of our 
sacred brethren !” 

“ True,” said Father Eustace ; “ but for every text there is a 
paraphrase ; and I have my suspicions, that if the drenching of 
Father Philip cometh of the Evil one, yet it may not have been 
altogether without his own personal fault.” 

“ How !” said the Father Abbot ; “ I will not believe that thou 
makest doubt that Satan, in former days, hath been permitted to 
afflict saints and holy men, even as he afflicted the pious Job 

“ God forbid I should make question of it,” said the monk, 
crossing himself ; “ yet, where there is an exposition of the 
Sacristan’s tale, which is less than miraculous, I hold it safe to 
consider it at least, if not to abide by it. Now, this Hob the 
Miller hath a buxom daughter. Suppose — I say only suppose 
— that our Sacristan met her at the ford on her return from her 
uncle’s on the other side, for there she hath this evening been — 
suppose, that, in courtesy, and to save her stripping hose and 
shoon, the Sacristan brought her across behind him — suppose 
he carried his familiarities farther than the maiden was willing 
to admit ; and we may easily suppose, farther, that this wetting 
was the result of it.” 

“ And this legend invented to deceive us !” said the Superior, 
reddening with wrath ; “ but most strictly shall it be sifted and 


THE MONASTERY. 


•91 

inquired into ; it is not upon us tliat Father Philip must hope to 
]nis3 the result of his own evil pi*actices for doings of Satan. 
To-morrow cite the wench to appear before us — we will examine, 
and we will punish.*’ 

“ Under your reverence’s favour,” said Eustace, “ that were 
hut poor policy. As things now stand with us, the heretics catch 
hold of each flying report which tends to the scandal of our 
clergy. We must abate the evil, not only by strengthening dis- 
cipline, but also by suppressing and stifling the voice of scandal. 
If my conjectures are true, the miller’s daughter will be silent 
for her own sake ; and your revei'ence’s authority may also 
impose silence on her father, and on the Sacristan. If lie is 
again found to afford room for throwing dishonour on his order, 
he can be punished with severity, but at the same time witli 
secrecy. For what say the Decretals ? Facinora ostendi dum 
jnmientKr, Jlagitia autem abscondi dehentF 

A sentence of Latin, as Eustace had before observed, had 
often much influence on the Abbot, because he understood it not 
fluently, and was ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance. On 
these terms they parted for the night. 

The next day. Abbot Boniface strictly interrogated Philip on 
the real cause of his disaster of the previous night. But the 
Sacristan stood firm to his story ; nor was he found to vary from 
any point of it, although the answers he returned were in some 
degree incoherent, owing to his intermingling with them ever 
and anon snatches of the strange damsel’s song, which had made 
such deep impression on his imagination, that he could not pre- 
vent himself from imitating it repeatedly in the coui’se of his 
examination. The Abbot had compassion with the Sacristan’s 
involuntary frailty, to which something supernatural seemed 
annexed, and finally became of opinion, that Father Eustace’s 
more natural explanation was rather plausible than just. And 
indeed, although we have recorded the adventiu’e as we find it 
written down, we cannot forbear to add that there was a schism 
on the subject in the convent, and that several of the brethren 
pretended to have good reason for thinking that the miller’s 
black-eyed daughter was at the bottom of the affair after all. 
Whichever w'ay it might be interpreted, all agreed that it had 
too ludicrous a sound to be permitted to get abroad, and there- 
foi’e the Sacristan was charged, on his vow of obedience, to say 
no more of his ducking; an injunction which, having once eased 
his mind by telling his story, it may be well conjectured that he 
joyfully obeyed. 

The attention of Father Eustace w'as much less forcibly arrested 
by the marvellous tale of the Sacristan’s danger, and his escape, 
than by the mention of the volume which he had brought with 
him from the Tower of Glendearg. A copy of the Scriptures, 
translated into the vulgar tongue, had found its way even into 
tlie proper territm-y of the church, and had been discovered in 


02 


THE MONASTERY. 


one of the most hidden and sequestered recesses of the Halidome 
of Saint Mary’s. 

He anxiously requested to see the volume. In this the Sa.C' 
ristan was unable to gratify him, for he had lost' it, as far as he 
recollected, when the supernatural being, as he conceived her to 
be, took her departure from him. Father Eustace went down 
to the spot in person, and searched all around it, in hopes of 
recovering the volume in question ; but his labour was in vain. 
1 le returned to the Abbot, and reported that it must have fallen 
into the river or the mill-stream ; “ for I will hardly believe,” he 
said, “ that Father Philip’s musical friend would fly off with a 
copy of the Holy Scriptures.” 

“ Being,” said the Abbot, “ as it is, an heretical translation, it 
may be tliought that Satan may have power over it.” 

“ Ay !” said Father Eustace, “ it is indeed his chiefest maga- 
zine of artillery, when he inspireth presumptuous and daring 
meii to set forth their own opinions and expositions of Holy 
"Writ. But though thus abused, the Scriptures are the source of 
our salvation, and are no more to be reckoned unholy, because 
of these rash men’s proceedings, than a powerful medicine is to 
be contemned, or held poisonous, because bold and evil leeches 
have employed it to the prejudice of their patients. With the 
]iermission of your reverence, I would that this matter were 
looked into more closely. I will myself visit the Tower of Glen- 
dearg ere I am many hours older, and we shall see if any spectre 
or white woman of the wild will venture to interrupt my journey 
or return. Have I your reverend permission and your bless- 
ing ?” ho added, but in a tone that appeared to set no great store 
by either. 

“ Thou hast both, my brother,” said the Abbot ; but no sooner 
had Eustace left the apartment, than Boniface could not help 
breaking on the Avilling ear of the Sacristan his sincere wish, 
that any spirit, black, white, or gray', would read the adviser 
such a lesson, as to cure him of his presumption in esteeming 
himself wiser than the whole community. 

“ I wish him no worse lesson,” said tlie Sacristan, “ than to go 
swimming mei’rily down the river with a ghost behind, and 
Kelpies, night-crows, and mud-eels, all waiting to have a snatch 
at him. 

jMerrily swim we, tlie moon shines briglit ! 

(.iood luck to your tisliing, whom watch you to-night ?” 

“ Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, “ wo exhort thee to say thy 
prayers, compose thyself, and banish that foolish chant from thy 
mind ; — it is but a deception of the devil’s.” 

“ I will essay, reverend Father,” said the Sacristan, ‘‘ but the 
tune hangs by my' memory like a bur in a beggar’s rags ; it 
mingles with the psalter — the very bells of the convent seem to 
repeat the words, and jingle to the tune; and were you to put 
me to death at this very moment, it is my belief I should die 


THE MONASTERY. 


singing it — ‘Now swim we merrily’ — it is as it were a speil 
ii])ou me.” 

lie then again began to wai'ble 

“ Good luck to your fishing.” 

And checking himself in the strain with difficulty, he. exclaimed, 
“It is too certain — I am but a lost pi'iest! Swim we merrily 
— I shall sing it at the very mass — Wo is me! I shall sing 
all the remainder of my life, and yet never be able to change the 
tune!” 

The honest Abbot replied, “ he knew many a good fellow in 
the same condition and concluded the remark with “ ho ! ho ! 
ho !” for his reverence, as the reader may partly have observed, 
was one of those dull folks who love a quiet joke. 

The Sacristan, well acquainted with his Superior’s humour, 
endeavoured to join in the laugh, but his unfortunate canticle 
came again across his imagination, and interrupted the hilarity 
of his customary echo. 

“ By the rood. Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, much moved, 
“ you become altogether intolerable ! and I am convinced that 
such a spell could not subsist over a person of religion, and in a 
religious house, unless he were under mortal sin. Wherefore, 
say the seven penitentiary psalms — make diligent use of thy 
scourge and hair-cloth — refrain for three days from all food, 
save bread and water — I myself will shrive thee, and we will see 
if this singing devil may be driven out of thee ; at least I think 
Father Eustace himself could devise no better exorcism.” 

The Sacristan sighed deeply, but knew remonstrance was vain. 
He retired therefore to his cell, to try how far psalmody might 
be able to drive oft* the sounds of the syren tune which haunted 
his memory. 

Meanwhile, Father Eustace proceeded to the drawbridge, in 
his way to the lonely valley of Glendearg. In a brief conversa- 
tion with the churlish Avarder, he had the address to render him 
more tractable in the controversy betwixt him and the convent. 
He reminded him that his father had been a vassal under the 
community ; that his brother was childless ; and that their pos- 
session would revert to the church on his death, and might be 
either granted to himself the warder, or to some greater favourite 
of the Abbot, as matters chanced to stand betwixt them at the 
time. The Sub-Prior suggested to him also, the necessary con- 
nection of interests betwixt the jMonastery and the office which 
this man enjoyed. Ho listened Avith temper to his rude .and 
churlish ansAvers ; and by keeping his own interest firm pitched 
in his vieAv, he had the satisfaction to find that Peter gradually 
softened his tone, and consented to let every pilgrim Avho travelled 
upon foot pass free of exaction until Pentecost next ; they Avho 
traA’-elled on horseback or otherAvise, consenting to pay the ordi- 
nary custom. Having thus accommodated a matter in Avhich the 


THE MONASTEHY. 


94 

weal of the convent was so deeply interested, Father Enstace 
proceeded on his journey. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Nay, dally not with time, the wise man’s treasure. 

Though fools are lavish on ’t — the fatal Fisher 
llooliS souls, while we waste moments. 

Old Play. 

A November mist overspread the little valley, up which slowly 
but steadily rode the Monk Eustace. He was not insensible to 
the feeling of melancholy inspired by the scene and by the 
season. The stream seemed to murmur with a deep and op- 
pressed note, as if bewailing the departure of autumn. Among 
the scattered copses which here and there fringed its banks, the 
oak-trees only retained that pallid green that precedes their 
russet hue. The leaves of the willows were most of them stripped 
from the branches, lay rustling at each breath, and disturbed by 
every step of the mule ; while the foliage of other trees, totally 
withered, kept still precarious possession of the boughs, waiting 
the first wind to scatter them. 

The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive thought 
which these autumnal emblems of mortal hopes are peculiarly 
calculated to inspire. “ There,” he said, looking at the leaves 
which lay strewed around, “ lie the hopes of early youth, first 
formed that they may soonest wither, and loveliest in spring to 
become most contemptible in winter ; but you, ye lingerers,” he 
added, looking to a knot of beeches which still bore their withered 
leaves, “ you are the proud plans of adventurous manhood, formed 
later, and still clinging to the mind of age, al'ihough it acknow- 
ledges their inanity! None lasts — none endures, save the foliage 
of the hardy oak, which only begins to shew itself when that of 
the rest of the forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and 
decayed hue is all it possesses, but still it retains that symptom 
of vitality to the last. — So be it with Father Eustace ! The 
fairy hopes of my youth I have trodden under foot like those 
neglected rustlers — to the prouder dreams of my manhood J 
look back as to lofty chimeras, of which the pith and essence 
have long since faded ; but my religious vows, the faithful pro- 
fession which I have made in my maturer age, shall retain life 
while aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be — feeble it 
must be — yet live it shall, the proud determination to serve the 
church of which I am a member, and to combat the heresies by 
which she is assailed.” Thus spoke, at least thus thought, a man 
zealous according to his imperfect knowledge, confounding the 
vital interests of Christianity with the extravagant and usurped 
claims of the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with 
ardour worthy of a better. 


THE MONASTERY. 


95 

While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he could not 
help thinking moi’e than once, that he saw in his path the form 
of a female dressed in white, who appeared in the attitude of 
lamentation. But the impression was only momentary, and 
whenever he looked steadily to the point where he conceived the 
figure appeared, it always proved that he had mistaken some 
natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of a decayed birch -tree 
with its silver bark, for the appearance in question. 

Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake the 
superstitious feelings of the more ignorant Scottish clergy ; yet he 
certainly thought it extraordinary, that so strong an impression 
should have been made on his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. 
“ It is strange,” he said to himself, “ that this story, which doubt- 
less was the invention of Brother Philip to cover his own impro- 
priety of conduct, should run so much in my head, and disturb 
my more serious thoughts — I am wont, 1 think, to have more 
command over my senses. I will repeat my prayers, and banish 
such folly from my recollection.” 

The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his beads, in 
pursuance of the prescribed rule of his order, and was not again 
disturbed by any wanderings of the imagination, until he found 
himself beneath the little fortalice of Glendearg. 

Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout of 
surprise and joy at seeing the good father. “ Martin,” she said, 
“Jasper, where be a’ the folk? — help the right reverend Sub- 
Prior to dismount, and take his mule from him. — 0 father ! God 
has sent you in our need — I was just going to send man and horse 
to the convent, though I ought to be ashamed to give so much 
trouble to your reverences.” 

“ Our trouble matters not, good dame,” said Father Eustace ; 
“ in what can I pleasure you 1 I came hither to visit the Lady 
of Avenel.” 

“ Well-a-day !” said Dame Alice, “and it was on her part that 
I had the boldness to think of summoning you, for the good lady 
will never be able to wear over the day ! — Would it please you 
to go to her chamber 

“ Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip ?” said the 
monk. 

“ Shriven she was,” said the Dame of Glendearg, “ and by 
Father Philip, as your reverence truly says — but — I wish it may 
have been a clean shrift — Methought Father Philip looked but 
moody upon it — and there was a book which he took away with 
him, that ” She paused as if unwilling to proceed. 

“ Speak out. Dame Glendinning,” said the Father ; “ with us it 
is your duty to have no secrets.” 

“ Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I would keep 
any thing from your reverence’s knowledge, but I fear I should 
prejudice the lady in your opinion ; for she is an excellent lady — 
months and years has she dwelt in this tower, and none more 


THE MONASTERY 


OS 

exemplary than she ; but this matter, doubtless, she will explain 
it herself to your reverence.” 

“ I desire first to know it from you. Dame Glendinnin^j,” 
said the monk ; “ and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell it 
to me.” 

“This book, if it please your reverence, which Father Philip 
removed from Glendearg, was this morning returned to us in a 
sti’ange manner,” said the good widow’. 

“ Returned !” said the monk ; “ How mean you ?” 

“ I mean,” answered Dame Glendinning, “that it w’as brought 
back to the tower of Glendearg, the saints best know how — that 
same book which Father Philip carried with him but yesterday. 
Old Martin, that is my tasker and the lady’s servant, was driving 
out the cows to the pasture — for we have three good milk-cows, 
reverend father, blessed be Saint Waldave, and thanks to the 
holy Monastery — ^ — ” 

The monk groaned with impatience ; but ho remembered that 
a w'oman of the good dame’s condition w’as like a top, which, if 
you let it spin on untouched, must at last come to a pause ; but, 
if you interrupt it by flogging, there is no end to its gyrations. 
“ But to speak no more of the cows, your reverence, though they 
are likely cattle as ever w’ere tied to a stake, the tasker was 
driving them out, and the lads, that is my Halbert and my 
Edward, that your reverence has seen at church on holidays, and 
especially Halbert, — for you patted him on the head and gave 
him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his bonnet, — ■ 
and little Mary Avenel, that is the lady’s daughter, they ran all 
after the cattle, and began to play up and dowui flie pasture as 
young folk will, your reverence. And at length they lost sight of 
Martin and the cow’s ; and they began to run up a little cleugh 
which we call Corri-nanShian, where there is a wee bit sti’ijie 
of a burn, and they saw thei’e — Good guide us ! — a White 
Woman sitting on the burn-side wringing her hands — so the 
bairns were frighted to see a strange woman sitting there, all but 
Halbert, who will be sixteen come Whitsuntide ; and, besides, he 
never feared ony thing — and when they went up to her — behold 
she was passed away !” 

“ For shame, good w’oman !” said Father Eustace ; “ a woman 
of your sense to listen to a tale so idle ! — the young folk told you 
a lie, and that was all.” 

“ Nay, sir, it Avas more than that,” said the old dame ; “ for, 
besides that they never told me a lie in their lives, I must Avarn 
you that on the A’ery ground Avhere the White Woman Avas 
sitting, they found the Lady of Avenel’s book, and brought it Avith 
them to the toAver.” 

“ That is AA’orthy of mark at least,” said the monk. « KnoAv 
yon no other copy of this volume Avithin these bounds «” 

“ None, your reverence,” returned Elspeth ; “ Avhy should there ? 
-^no one could read it AA’ere tlierc tAventy.” 


THE MONASTERY. 97 

Then you are sure it is the very same volume which you gave 
to Father Philip said the monk. 

“ As sure as that I now speak with your reverence.” 

‘‘ It is most singular !” said the monk ; and he walked across 
the room in a musing posture. 

“ I have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence would 
say,” continued l)ame Glendinniug, “ respecting this matter — 
There is nothing I would not do for the Lady of Avenel and her 
fhmily, and that has been proved, and for her servants to boot, 
both Martin and Tibb, although Tibb is not so civil sometimes as 
altogether I have a right to expect ; but I cannot think it be- 
seeming to have angels, or ghosts, or fairies, or the like, waiting 
upon a leddy when she is in another woman’s house, in respect it 
is no ways creditable. Ony thing she had to do was always done 
to her hand, without costing her either pains or pence, as a 
country body says ; and besides the discredit, I cannot but think 
that there is no safety in having such unchancy creatures about 
ane. But I have tied red thread round the bairns’s throats,” (so 
her fondness still called tliem,) “ and given ilk ane of them a 
riding-wand of rowan-tree, foi’by sewing up a slip of witch-elm 
into their doublets ; and I wish to know of your reverence if there 
be ony thing mair that a lone woman can do in the matter of 
ghosts and fairies % — Be here ! that I should have named their 
unlucky names twice ower !” 

“ Dame Glendinning,” answered the monk, somewhat abruptly, 
when the good woman had finished her narrative, “ I pray you, 
do you know the miller’s daughter ?” 

“ Did I know Kate Happer ?” replied the widow; “as well as 
the beggar knows his dish — a canty quean was Kate, and a spe- 
cial cummer of my ain may be twenty years syne.” 

“ She cannot be the wench I mean,” said Father Eustace ; 
“ she after whom I inquire is scarce fifteen, a black-eyed girl — 
you may have seen her at the kirk.” 

“ Your reverence must be in the right ; and she is my cum- 
mer’s niece, doubtless, that you are pleased to speak of : But I 
thank God I have always been too duteous in attention to the 
mass, to know whether young wenches have black eyes or green 
ones.” 

The good Father had so much of the world about him, that he 
was unable to avoid smiling, when the dame boasted her absolute 
resistance to a temptation, which was not quite so liable to beset 
her as those of the other sex. 

“ Perhaps, then,” he said, “ you know her usual dress. Dame 
Glendinning ?” 

“Ay, ay. Father,” answered the dame readily enough, “a 
white kirtle the wench wears, to hide the dust of the mill, no 
doubt — and a blue hood, that might weel be spared, for pride- 
fulness.” , , , 

“ Then, may it not be she,” said the Father, “ who has brought 

X. 


98 THE MONASTERY. 

back this book, and stepped out of the way when the children 
came near her 1” 

The dame paused — was unwilling to combat the solution sug- 
gested by the monk — but was at a loss to conceive why the lass 
of the mill should come so far from home into so wild a corner 
merely to leave an old book with three childi-en, from whose 
observation she wished to conceal herself. Above all, she could 
not understand why, since she had acquaintances in the family, 
and since the Dame Glendinning had always paid her mulcture 
and knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in to 
rest herself and eat a morsel, and tell her the current news of the 
water. 

These very objections satisfied the monk that his conjectures 
were right. Dame,” he said, “ you must be cautious in what 
you say. This is an instance — I would it were the sole one — of 
the power of the Enemy in these days. The matter must be sifted 
with a curious and careful hand.” 

“ Indeed,” said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime in with the 
ideas of the Sub-Prior, “ I have often thought the miller’s folk at 
tlie Monastery-mill were far over careless in sifting our melder, 
and in bolting it too — some folk say they will not stick at whiles 
to put in a handful of ashes amongst Christian folk’s corn-meal.” 

That shall be looked after also, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, 
not displeased to see that the good old woman went off on a false 
scent ; “ and now, by your leave, I will see this lady — do you 
go before,, and prepare her to see me.” 

Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment accordingly, which 
the monk paced in anxious reflection, considering how he might 
best discharge, with humanity as well as with effect, the impor- 
tant duty imposed on him. He resolved to approach the bedside 
of the sick person with reprimands, mitigated only by a feeling 
for her weak condition — he determined, in case of her reply, to 
which late examples of hardened heretics might encourage her, 
to be prepared with answers to their customary scruples. High 
fraught, also, with zeal against her unauthorized intrusion into 
the priestly function, by study of the Sacred Scriptures, he 
imagined to himself the answers which one of the modem school 
of heresy might return to him — the victorious refutation which 
should lay the disputant prostrate at the Confessor’s mercy — and 
the healing, yet awful exhortation, which, under pain of refusing 
the last consolations of religion, he designed to make to the peni- 
tent, conjuring her, as she loved her own soul’s welfare, to dis- 
close to him what she knew of the dark mystery of iniquity, by 
which heresies were introduced into the most secluded spots of 
the very patrimony of the church herself — what agents they had 
who could thus glide, as it were unseen, from place to place, bring 
back the volume which the church had interdicted to the spots 
from Avhich it had been removed under her express auspices ; 
and who, by encouraging the daring and profane thirst after Imow- 


THE MONASTERY. 


99 

ledge forbidden and useless to tlie laity, had encouraged the fisher 
of souls to use with effect his old bait of ambition and vain-glory. 

Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the good fatlier, 
when Elspeth returned, her tears flowing faster than her apron 
could dry them, and made him a signal to follow her. “ How,” 
said the monk, “ is she then so near her end ? — nay, the churcli 
must not break or bruise, when comfort is yet possible and 
forgetting his polemics, the good Sub-Prior hastened to the little 
apartment, where, on the wretched bed which she had occupied 
since her misfortunes had driven her to the Tower of Glendearg, 
the widow of Walter Avenel had rendered up her spirit to her 
Creator. “ My God !” said the Sub-Prior, “ and has my unfor- 
tunate dallying suffered her to depart without the Church’s 
consolation ! Look to her, daine,” he exclaimed with eager 
impatience ; " is there not yet a sparkle of tlie life left ? — may 
she not be recalled — recalled but for a moment ? — Oh ! would 
that she could express, but by the most imperfect word — but by 
the most feeble motion, her acquiescence in the needful task of 
penitential prayer ! — Does she not breathe ^ — Art thou sure she 
doth not ” 

“ She will never breathe more,” said the matron. “ Oh ! the 
poor fatherless girl — now motherless also — Oh, the kind com- 
panion I have had these many years, whom I shall never see 
again ! But she is in heaven for certain, if ever woman went 
there ; for a woman of better life ” 

“Wo to me,” said the good monk, “if indeed she went not 
hence in good assurance — wo to the reckless shepherd, who 
suffered the wolf to caiTy a choice one from the flock, while he 
busied himself with trimming his sling and his staff to give the 
monster battle ! Oh ! if in the long Hereafter, aught but weal 
should that poor spirit share, what has my delay cost ! — the value 
of an immortal soul !” 

He then approached the body, full of the deep remorse natural 
to a good man of his persuasion, who devoutly believed the 
doctrines of the Catholic Church. “ Ay,” said he, gazing on the 
pallid corpse, from which the spirit had parted so placidly as to 
leave a smile upon the thin blue lips, which had been so long 
wasted by decay that they had parted with the last breath of 
animation witliout the slightest convulsive tremor — “ Ay,” said 
Fatlier Eustace, “ there lies the faded tree, and, as it fell, so it 
lies — awful thought for me, should my neglect have left it to 
descend in an evil direction !” He then again and again conjured 
Dame Gleiidinning to tell him what she knew of the demeanour 
and ordinary walk of the deceased. 

All tended to the high honour of the deceased lady ; for her 
companion, who admired her sufficiently while alive, notwith- 
standing some trifling points of jealousy, now idolized her after 
her death, and could think of no attribute of i)raise with which 
Ehe did not adorn her memory. 


THE MONASTERY. 


100 

Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might piivatcly 
doubt some of the doctrines announced by the Church of Rome, 
and although she had probably tacitly appealed from that cor- 
rupted system of Christiauity to the volume on which Christianity 
itself is founded, had nevertheless been regular in her atten- 
dance on the worship of the church, not, pei’haps, extending her 
scruples so far as to break off communion. Such indeed was the 
first sentiment of the earlier reformers, who seem to have studied, 
for a time at least, to avoid a schism, until the violence of the 
Pope rendered it inevitable. 

Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with eager- 
ness to every thing which could lead to assure him of the lady’s 
orthodoxy in the main points of belief ; for his conscience re- 
proached him sorely, that, instead of protracting conversation 
with the Dame of Glendearg, he had not instantly hastened where 
his presence was so necessary. “ If,” he said, addressing the 
dead body, “ thou art yet free from the utmost penalty due to 
the followers of false doctrine — if thou dost but suffer for a time, 
to expiate faults done in the body, but partaking of mortal frailty 
more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy abode shall be long in 
the penal regions to which thou mayest be doomed — if vigils — if 
masses — if penance — if maceration of my body, till it resembles 
that extenuated form which the soul hath abandoned, may assvire 
thy deliverance. The Holy Church — the godly foundation — our 
blessed Patroness herself, shall intercede for one whose errors 
were counterbalanced by so many virtues. — Leave me, dame — ■ 
here, and by her bedside, will I perform those duties which this 
piteous case demands !” 

Elspeth left the monk, who employed himself in fervent and 
sincere, though erroneous prayers, for the weal of the departed 
spirit. For an hour he remained in the apartment of death, and 
then returned to the hall, where he found the still weeping friend 
of the deceased. 

But it would be injustice to Mrs Elspeth Glendinning’s hospi- 
tality, if we suppose her to have been weeping during this long 
interval, or rather if we suppose her so entirely absorbed by the 
tribute of sorrow which she paid frankly and plentifully to her 
deceased friend, as to be incapable of attending to the rights ol 
hospitality due to the holy visiter • — who was coijfessor at once, 
and Sub-Piaor — mighty in all religious and secular considera- 
tions, so far as the vassals of the Monastery were interested. 

Her barley -bread had been toasted — her choicest cask of 
home-brewed ale had been broached — her best butter had been 
placed on the hall-table, along with her most savoury ham and 
lier choicest cheese, ere she abandoned herself to the extremity 
of sorrow ; and it was not till she had arranged her little rej>ast 
iHiatly on the board, that she sat down in the chimney corner, 
threw her checked apron over her head, and gave way to the 
current of tears and sobs. In this there was no grimace op 


THE MONASTERY. 


101 


affectation. The good dame held the honours of her house to be 
as essential a duty, especially when a monk was her visitant, as 
any other pressing call upon her conscience; nor until these were 
suitably attended to did she find herself at liberty to indulge her 
sorrow for her departed friend. 

When she was conscious of the Sub-Prior’s presence, she rose 
with the same attention to his reception ; but he declined all the 
offers of hospitality with which she endeavoured to tempt him. 
Not her butter, as yellow as gold, and the best, she assured him, 
that was made in the patidmony of Saint Mary — not the barley- 
scones, which “ the departed saint, God sain her ! used to say 
were so good ” — not the ale, nor any other cates which poor 
Elspoth’s stores afforded, could prevail on the Sub-Prior to break 
his fast. 

“ This day,” he said, “ I must not taste food until the sun go 
down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate my own negligence — 
happier still, if my sufferings of this trifling nature, undertaken 
in pure faith and singleness of heart, may benefit the soul of the 
ileceased. Yet, dame,” he added, “ I may not so far forget the 
living in my cares for the dead, as to leave behind me that book, 
which is to the ignorant what, to our first parents, the tree of 
Knowledge of Good and Evil unhappily proved — excellent 
indeed in itself, but fatal because used by those to whom it is 
prohibited.” 

‘‘ Oh, blithely, reverend father,” said the widow of Simon Glen- 
dinning, ‘''will I give you the book, if so be I can wile it from 
the bairns ; and indeed, poor things, as the case stands with them 
even now, you might take the heart out of their bodies, and they 
never find it out, they are sae begrutten.” * 

“ Give them this missal instead, good dame,” said the Father, 
drawing from his pocket one which was curiously illuminated 
with paintings, “ and I will come myself, or send one at a fitting 
time, and teach them the meaning of these pictures.” 

“ The bonny images !” said Dame Glendinning, forgetting for 
an instant her grief in her admiration, “ and weel I wot,” added 
she, “ it is another sort of a book than the poor Lady of Avenel’s; 
and blessed might we have been this day, if your reverence had 
found the way up the glen, instead of Father Philip, though the 
.Sacristan is a powerful man too, and speaks as if he would ger 
the house fly abroad, save that the walls are gey thick. Simon’s 
forebears (may he and they be blessed !) took care of that.” 

The monk oi’dered his mule, and was about to take his leave ; 
and the good dame was still delaying him with questions about 
the funeral, when a horseman, armed and accoutred, rode into 
the little court-yard which surrounded the Keep. 

* -over-weeped. 


102 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER IX. 


For since they rode among our doors 
Witli splent on spauld and rusty spurs, 

Tliere grows no fruit into our furs; 

Thus said John Up-on-land. 

Bannatync JfS. 

The Scottish laws, which were as wisely and judiciously made 
as they were carelessly and ineffectually executed, had ia vain 
endeavoured to restrain the damage done to agriculture, by the 
chiefs and landed proprietors retaining in their service what were 
called jack -men, from the jack, or doublet quilted with iron, 
which they wore as defensive armour. These military retainers 
conducted themselves with great insolence towards the indus- 
trious part of the community — lived in a great measure by plun- 
der, and were ready to execute any commands of their master, 
however unlawful. In adopting this mode of life, men resigned 
the quiet hopes and regular labours of industry, for an unsettled, 
precarious, and dangerous trade, which yet had such charms for 
those once accustomed to it, that they became incapable of fol- 
lowing any other. Hence the complaint of John Upland, a ficti- 
tious character, representing a countryman, into whose mouth 
the poets of the day put their general satires upon men and 
manners : 


They ride about in such a rage, 

By forest, frith, and field, 

With buckler, bow, and brand. 

Lo .' where they ride out through the rye ! 

The Devil mot save the company, 

Quoth John Up-on-land. 

Christie of the Clinthill, the horseman who now arrived at the 
little Tower of Glendearg, was one of the hopeful company of 
whom the poet complains, as was indicated by his “ splent on 
spauld,” (iron-plates on his shoulder,) his rusted spurs, and his 
long lance. An iron skull-cap, none of the brightest, bore for 
distinction a sprig of the holly, which was Avenel’s badge. A 
long two-edged straight sword, having a handle made of polished 
oak, hung down by his side. The meagre condition of his horse, 
and the wild and emaciated look of the rider, shewed their occu- 
pation could not be accounted an easy or a thriving one. He 
saluted Dame Glendinniug with little courtesy, and the monk 
with less ; for the growing disrespect to the religious orders had 
not failed to extend itself among a class of men of such disorderly 
hal)its, although it may be supposed they were tolerably indifferent 
alike to the new or the ancient doctrines, 

“ So, our lady is dead. Dame Glendinning said the jack-man ; 
“ my master has sent you even now a fat bullock for her mart 


THE MONASTERY. 


103 

it may serve for her funeral. I have left him in the upper cleugh, { 
as he is somewhat kenspeckle, * and is marked both with cut and 
him — the sooner the skin is off, and he is in saultfat, the less like 
you are to have trouble — you understand me ? Let me have a 
peck of corn for my horse, and beef and beer for myself, for 1 
must go on to the Monastery — though I tliink this monk here 
might do mine errand.” 

“ Thine errand, rude man !” said the Siib-Prior, knitting his 
brows j 

“ For God’s sake 1” cried poor Dame Glendinning, terrified ' 
at the idea of a quarrel between them, — “0 Christie ! — it is the 
Sub-Prior — 0 reverend sir, it is Christie of the Clinthill, the 
laird’s chief jack-man ; ye know that little havings can be 
expected from the like o’ them.” 

“ Are you a retainer of the Laird of Avenel ?” said the monk, 
addressing himself to the horseman, “and do you speak thus 
rudely to a brother of Saint Mary’s, to whom thy master is so 
much beholden ?” 

“ He means to be yet more beholden to your house, Sir Monk,” 
answered the fellow ; “ for hearing his sister-in-law, the widow of 
Walter of Avenel, was on her death -bed, he sent me to say to the 
Father Abbot and the brethren, that he will hold the funeral-feast 
at their convent, and invites himself thereto, with a score of horse, 
and some friends, and to abide there for three days and three 
nights, — having horse-meat and men’s-meat at the charge of the 
community ; of which his intention he sends due notice, that 
fitting preparation may be timeously made.” 

“ Friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “ believe not that I will do to 
the Father Abbot the indignity of delivering such an errand. — 
I'hink’st thou the goods of the church were bestowed upon her by 
holy princes and pious nobles, now dead and gone, to be consumed 
m revelry by every profligate layman who numbers in his train 
more followers than he can support by honest means, or by his 
own incomings ? Tell thy master, from the Sub-Prior of Saint 
Mary’s, that the Primate hath issued his commands to us 
that we submit no longer to this compulsory exaction of hospi- 
tality on slight or false pretences. Our lands and goods wen 
given to relieve pilgrims and pious persons, not to feast bands ol 
rude soldiers.” 

“ This to me !” said the angry spearman, “ this to me and to 
my master — Look to yourself then. Sir Priest, and try if Aw 
and Credo will keep bullocks from wandering, and hay-stalks from 
burning.” 

“ Dost thou menace the Holy Church’s patrimony with waste 
and fire-raising,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and that in the face of the 
sun ? I call on all who hear me to bear witness to the words this 
ruffian has spoken. Remember how the Lord James drowned 

• Kenspixlile — tliat whicli is easily ivcogiiiztil liy the eye. 


104 THE MONASTERY. 

such as you by scores in the black pool at Jecldart. — To him and 
to the Primate will I complain.” The soldier shifted the position 
of his lance, and brought it down to a level with the monk’s body. 

Dame Glendinning began to shriek for assistance. “ Tibb 
Tacket ! Martin ! where be ye all ? — Christie, for the love of 
God, consider he is a man of Holy Kirk !” 

“ I care not for his spear,” said the Sub-Prior ; if I am slain 
in defending the rights and privileges of my community, the 
Primate will know how to take vengeance.” 

“ Let him look to himself,” said Christie, but at the same time 
depositing his lance against the wall of the tower ; if the Fife 
men spoke true who came hither with the Governor in the last 
raid, Norman Leslie has him at feud, and is like to set him hard. 
We know Norman a true bloodhound, who will never quit the 
slot. But I had no design to offend the holy father,” he added, 
thinking perhaps he had gone a little too far ; “ I am a rude man, 
bred to lance and stirrup, and not used to deal with book-learned 
men and priests ; and I am willing to ask his forgiveness and his 
blessing, if I have said aught amiss.” 

“ For God’s sake, your reverence,” said the widow of Glendearg 
apart to the Sub-Prior, “ bestow on him your forgiveness — how 
shall we poor folk sleep in security in the dark nights, if the 
Convent is at feud with such men as he is ?” 

“ You are right, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your safety 
should, and must, be in the first instance consulted. — Soldier, I 
forgive thee, and may God bless thee and send thee honesty.” 

Christie of tho Clinthill made an unwilling inclination with his 
head, and muttei’ed apart, “ that is as much as to say, God send 
thee starvation. — But now to my master’s demand. Sir Priest ? 
What answer am I to return ?” 

“ That the body of the widow of Walter of Avenel,” answered 
the Father, “ shall be interred as becomes her rank, and in the 
tomb of her valiant husband. For your master’s proffered visit 
of three days, with such a company and retinue, I liave no autho- 
rity to reply to it ; you must intimate your Chief’s purpose to the 
Reverend Lord Abbot.” 

“ That will cost me a farther ride,” said the man, but it is all 
in the day’s work. — How now, my lad,” said he to Halbert, who 
was handling the long lance which he had laid aside ; “ how do 
you like such a plaything \ — will you go with me and be a moss- 
trooper ?” 

“ The Saints in their mercy forbid !” said the poor mother ; 
and then, afraid of having displeased Christie by the vivacity of 
her exclamation, she followed it tip by explaining, that since 
Simon’s death she could not look on a spear or a bow, or any 
implement of destruction without trembling. 

“Pshaw!” answered Christie, “thou shouldst take another 
husband, dame, and drive such follies out of thy thoughts — what 
sayst thou to such a strapping lad as I J Wliy, this old tower ot 


THE MONASTERY. 


105 


thine Is fencible enough, and there is no want of clcuclis, and 
crags, and bogs, and thickets, if one was set hard ; a man might 
bide here and keep his half-score of lads, and as many geldings, 
and live on what he could lay his hand on, and bo kind to tlice, 
old wench.” 

“ Alas ! Master Christie,” said the matron, “ that you should 
talk to a lone woman in such a hishion, and death in the house 
besides !” 

“ Lone woman ! — why, that is the very reason thou sh ouldst take 
a mate. Thy old friend is dead, why, good — choose thou another 
of somewhat tougher frame, and that will not die of the pip like a 
young chicken. — Better still — Come, dame, let me have some- 
thing to eat, and avo will talk more of this.” 

Dame Elspeth, though she well knew the character of the man, 
whom in fact she both disliked and feared, could not help simper- 
ing at the personal address which he thought pi’oper to make to 
her. She whispered to the Sub-Prior, “ ony thing just to keep 
him quiet,” and went into the tower to sot before the soldier the 
food he desired, trusting, betwixt good cheer and the pow'er of her 
own charms, to keep Christie of the Ciinthill so Avell amused, that 
the altercation betwixt him and the holy father should not be 
renewed. 

The Sub-Prior was equally unwilling to hazard any unnecessary 
rupture between the community and such a person as Julian of 
Avenel. He Avas sensible that moderation, as Avell as firmness, 
Avas necessary to support the tottering cause of the Church of 
Ptorae ; and that, conti’ary to former times, the quarrels betAvixt 
the clergy and laity had, in the present, usually terminated to the 
adA'antagc of the latter. He resolved, therefore, to avoid farther 
strife by AvithdraAving, but failed not, in the first place, to i)Ossess 
himself of the volume Avhich the Sacristan carried off’ the evening 
before, and Avhich had been returned to the glen in such a mar- 
vellous manner. 

Edward, the younger of Dame Elspeth’s boys, made great 
objections to the book’s being removed, in Avhich Mary would 
probably have joined, but that she Avas noAv in her little sleeping- 
chamber Avith Tibb, Avho Avas exerting her simple skill to console 
the young lady for her mother’s death. But the younger Glen- 
dinning stood up in defence of her property, and, Avith a positive- 
ness Avhich had hitherto made no part of his chai’acter, declared, 
that noAV the kind lady Avas dead, the book Avas Mary’s, and no 
one but Mary sliould have it. 

“ But if it is not a fit book for Mary to read, my dear boy,” said 
the Father, gently, "you Avould not Avish it to remain Avitli her 

“ The lady read it,” ansAvered the young champion of property ; 
" and so it could not be A\Tong — it shall not be taken away. — I 
Avonder where Halbert is? — listening to the bravading tales of 
gay Christie, I reckon — he is ahvays Avishing for fighting, and 
iioAv he is out of the way.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


10f> 

“ Why, Edward, you would not fight with me, who am both a 
priest a.nd an old man 

“ If you were as good a priest as the Pope,” said the boy, 
‘‘ and as old as the hills to boot, you shall not carry away Malay’s 
book without her leave. I will do battle for it.” 

“ But see you, my love,” said the monk, amused with the 
resolute friendship manifested by the boy, “ I do not take it ; 
I only borrow it ; and I leave in its place my own gay missal, 
as a pledge I will bring it again.” 

Edward opened the missal with eager curiosity, and glanced at 
the pictures with which it was illustrated. “ Saint George and 
the dragon — Halbert will like that; and Saint Michael bran- 
dishing his sword over the head of the Wicked One — and that 
will do for Halbert too. And see the Saint John leading his 
lamb in the wilderness, with his little cross made of reeds, and 
his scrip and staff — that shall be my favourite ; and where shall 
we find one for poor Mary ? — here is a beautiful woman weeping 
and lamenting herself.” 

“ This is Saint Mary Magdalen repenting of her sins, my dear 
boy,” said the Father. 

“ That will not suit our Mary ; for she commits no faults, and 
is never angry with us, but when we do something wrong.” 

“ Then,” said the Father, “ I will shew you a Mary, who will 
protect her and you, and all good children. See how fairly she is 
represented, with her gown covered with golden stars.” 

The boy was lost in wonder at the portrait of tlie Virgin, which 
the Sub-Prior turned up to him. 

“ This,” he said, ‘‘is really like our sweet Mary; and I think I will 
let you take away the black book, that has no such goodly shows 
in it, and leave this for Mary instead. But you must promise to 
bring back the book, good Father — for now I think upon it, 
Mary may like that best which was her mother’s.” 

“ I will certainly return,” said the monk, evading his answer, 
“ and perhaps I may teach you to rvrite and read such beautiful 
letters as you see there written, and to paint them blue, green, 
and yellow, and to blazon them with gold.” 

“ Ay, and to make such figures as these blessed Saints, and 
especially these two Marys ?” said the boy. 

“ With their blessing,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I can teach you 
that art too, so far as I am myself capable of shewing, and you 
of learning it.” 

“ Then,” said Edward, “ will I paint Mary’s picture — and 
remember you are to bring back the black book ; that you must 
promise me.” 

The Sub-Prior, anxious to get rid of the boy’s pertinacity, and 
to set forward on his I’eturn to the convent, without having any 
farther interview with Christie the galloper, answered by giving 
tlie promise Edward required, mounted his mule, and set forth 
on his return homeward. 


THE MONASTERY. 


107 

^ The November day was well spent ere the Sub-Prior resumed 
his journey ; for the difficulty of the road, and the various delays 
which he had met with at the tower, had detained him longer 
than he proposed. A chill easterly wind was sighing among the 
withered leaves, and stripping them from the hold they had yet 
retained on the parent trees. 

“ Even so,” said the monk, “ our prospects in this vale of 
time grow more disconsolate as the stream of years passes on. 
Little have I gained by my journey, saving the certainty that 
heresy is busy among us with more than his usual activity, and 
that the spirit of insulting religious orders, and plundering the 
Church’s property, so general in the eastern districts of Scotland, 
has now come nearer home.” 

The tread of a horse which came up behind him, interrupted 
his reverie, and he soon saw he was mounted by the same wild 
rider whom he had left at the tower. 

“ Good even, my son, and benedicite,” said the Sub-Prior as 
he passed ; but the rude soldier scarce acknowledged the greet- 
ing, by bending his head ; and dashing the spui’s into his horse, 
went on at a pace which soon left the monk and his mule far 
behind. And there, thought the Sub-Prior, goes another plague 
of the times — a fellow whose birth designed him to cultivate the 
earth, but who is perverted by the unhallowed and unchristian 
divisions of the country, into a daring and dissolute robber. The 
bai'ons of Scotland are now turned masterful thieves and ruffians, 
oppressing the poor by violence, and wasting the Church, by 
extorting free-quarters from abbeys and priories, without either 
shame or reason. I fear me I shall be too late to counsel the 
Abbot to make a stand against these daring sorners* — I must 
make haste.” He struck his mule with his riding-wand accor- 
dingly ; but, instead of mending her pace, the animal suddenly 
started from the path, and the rider’s utmost efforts could not 
force her forward. 

“ Art thou, too, infected with the spirit of the times !” said the 
Sub-Prior ; thou wert wont to be ready and serviceable, and art 
now as restive as any wild jack-man or stubborn heretic of them 
all.” 

While he was contending with the startled animal, a voice, 
like that of a female, chanted in his ear, or at least very doss 
t> it, 

“ Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride. 

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide ; 

Rut ride you through valley, or ride you o’er hill, 

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. 

Back, back. 

The volume black ! 

I have a warrant to carry it back.” 

The Sub-Prior lo ' ked around, but neither bush nor brake w as 


♦ bee Note 1>. S^ji iicn. 


108 THE MONASTERY. 

near which could conceal an ambushed songstress. May Our 
Lady have mercy on me !” he said ; “ I trust my senses have 
not forsaken me — yet how my thoughts should arrange them- 
selves into rhymes which I despise, and music which I care not 
foi*, or why there should be the sound of a female voice in ears, 
in which its melody has been so long indifferent, baffles my com- 
])rehension, and almost realizes the vision of Philip the Sacristan. 
Come, good mule, betake thee to the path, and let us hence while 
our judgment serves us.” 

But the mule stood as if it had been rooted to the spot, backed 
from the point to -which it was pressed by its rider, and by her 
ears laid close into her neck, and her eyes almost starting from 
their sockets, testified that she Avas under great terror. 

While the Sub-Prior, by alternate threats and soothing, endea- 
voured to reclaim the wayward animal to her duty, tlie wiki 
musical voice was again heard close beside him. 

“ AVliat, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but liero 
To conjure a book from a dead woman’s bier '! 

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 

liide back with the book, or you ’ll pay for your prize. 

Pack, back. 

There ’s death in the track ! 

In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.” 

“ In the name of my Master,” said the astonished monk, “ that 
name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to 
say what thou art that hauntest me thus 1” 

The same voice replied, 

“ That wliich is neither ill nor well. 

That wliich belongs not to Heaven nor to hell, 

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, 

’Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream ; 

A form that men spy 

With tlie half-shut eye. 

In the beams of the setting sun, am I.” 

“ This is more than simple fantasy,” said the Sub-Prior, rous- 
ing himself ; though, notwithstanding the natural hardihood of 
his temper, the sensible pi’esence of a supernatural being so near 
him, failed not to make his blood run cold, and his hair bristle. 
“ I charge thee,” he said aloud, “ be thine errand Avhat it will, 
to depart and trouble me no more ! False spirit, thou canst not 
appal any save those Avho do the work negligently.” 

The voice immediately answered : 

“ Vainly, Sir Prior, Avouldst thou bar me my right ! 

Like the star when it shoots, I can dart tlirough the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent and ride on tlie air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. 

Again, again. 

At the crook of the glen. 

Where bickers the burnie, I ’ll meet thee again.” 

The road was now apparently left open ; for the mule collected 
herself, and changed from her posture of teri’or to one which 
promised advance, although a profuse perspiration, and genenU 


THE MONASTERY. 100 

trembling of tlio joints, indicated the bodily tcrroi she had 
undergone. 

T used to doubt the existence of Cabalists and Rosicrucians,” 
thought the Sub-Prior, “ but, by my Holy Order, I know no 
longer what to say ! — My pulse beats temperately — my hand is 
cool — I am fasting from every thing but sin, and possessed of 
my ordinary faculties — Either some fiend is permitted to be- 
wilder me, or the tales of Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and 
others who treat of occult philosophy, are not without foundation. 
— At the crook of the glen ? I could have desired to avoid a 
second meeting, but I am on the service of the church, and tlie 
gates of hell shall not prevail against me.” 

He moved around accordingly, but with precaution, and not 
without fear ; for he neither knew the manner in which, or the 
place where, his journey might be next interrupted by his in- 
visible attendant. He descended the glen without interruption 
for about a mile farther, when, just at the spot where the bi’ook 
approached the steep hill, with a winding so abrupt as to leave 
scarcely room for a horse to pass, the mule was again visited 
with the same symptoms of terror which had before interrupted 
her course. Better acquainted than before with the cause of her 
restiveness, the Priest employed no effort to make her proceed, 
but addressed liimself to the object, which he doubted not was 
the same that had formerly interrupted him, in the words of 
solemn exorcism prescribed by the Church of Rome on such 
occasions. 

In reply to his demand, the voice again sung ; — 

“ Men of good are bold as sackless,* 
i^Ien of rude are wild and reckless. 

Lie thou still 

In the nook of the hill. 

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.” 

While the Sub -Prior listened, with his head turned in the 
direction from which the sounds seemed to come, he felt as if 
something rushed against him ; and ere he could discover the 
cause, he was pushed from his saddle with gentle but irresistible 
force. Before he reached the ground his senses were gone, and 
he lay long in a state of insensibility ; for the sunset had not 
ceased to gild the top of the distant hill when he fell, — and 
when he again became conscious of existence, the pale moon was 
gleaming on the landscape. lie awakened in a state of terror, 
from which, for a few minutes, he found it difficult to shake him- 
self free. At length he sate up on the grass, and became sen- 
sible, by repeated exertion, that the only personal injury which 
he had sustained was the numbness ai-ising from exti’eme cold. 
The motion of something near him made the blood again run to 
liis heart, and by a sudden eftbrt he started up, and, looking 


* ^TacWcw — Innocent. 


THK MONASTERY. 


no 

around, saw to his relief that the noise was occasioned by the 
footsteps of his own mule. The peaceable animal had remained 
quietly beside her master during his trance, browsing on the 
grass which grew plentifully in that sequestered nook. 

With some exertion he collected himself, remounted the animal, 
and meditating upon his wild adventure, descended the glen till 
its junction with the broader valley through which the Tweed 
winds. The drawbridge was readily dropped at his first summons ; 
and so much had he won upon the heart of the churlish warden, 
that Peter appeared himself with a lantern to shew the Sub-Prior 
his way over the perilous pas.^ 

“ By my sooth, sir,” he said, holding the light up to Father 
1‘mstace’s face, “ you look sorely travelled and deadly pale — but 
little matter serves to weary out you men of the cell. I now 
who speak to you — I have ridden — before I was perched up 
here on this pillar betwixt wind and water — it may be thirty 
Scots miles before I broke my fast, and have had the red of a 
bramble rose in my cheek all the while — But will you taste some 
food, or a cup of distilled waters ?” 

‘‘ I may not,” said Father Eustace, “ being under a vow ; but 
I thank you for your kindness, and pray you to give what I may 
not accept to the next poor pilgrim who comes hither pale and 
fainting, for so it shall be the better both with him here, and with 
you hereafter.” 

‘‘ By my faith, and I will do so,” said Peter Bridge-Ward, 
even for thy sake — It is strange now, how this Sub-Prior gets 
round one’s heart more than the rest of these cowled gentry, that 
think of nothing but quaffing and stuffing ! — Wife, I say — wife 
we will give a cup of distilled waters and a crust of bread unto the 
next pilgrim that comes over ; and ye may keep for the purpose 
the grunds of the last greybeard,* and the ill-baked bannock 
which the bairns couldna eat.” 

While Peter issued these charitable, and, at the same time, 
prudent injunctions, the Sub-Prior, whose mild interference had 
awakened the Bridge- Ward to such an act of unwonted gene- 
rosity, was pacing onward to the Monastery. In the way, he had 
to commune with and subdue his own rebellious heart, an ener.iy, 
he was sensible, more formidable than any which the external 
powers of Satan could place in his way. 

Father Eustace had indeed strong temptation to suppress the 
extraordinary incident which had befallen him, which he was the 
more reluctant to confess, because he had passed so severe a 
judgment upon Father Philip, who, as he was not unwilling to 
allow, had, on his return from Glendearg, encountered obstacles 
somewhat similar to his own. Of this the Sub-Prior was tlie 
more convinced, when, feeling in liis bosom for the Book which 
he had brought oflT from the Tower of Glendearg he found it was 

, ♦ An old fashioned name for an earthen jar for holding spirits. 


THE MONASTERY. Ill 

amissiug, which he could only account for by supposing it had 
been stolen from him during his trance. 

“ If I confess this strange visitation,” thought the Sub-Prior, 
“ I become the ridicule of all my brethren — I whom the Primate 
sent hither to be a watch, as it were, and a check upon their 
follies. I give the Abbot an advantage over me which I shall 
never again recover, and Heaven only knows how he may abuse 
it, in his foolish simplicity, to the dishonour and loss of Holy 
Kirk. — But then, if I make not true confession of my shame, 
with what face can I again presume to admonish or restrain 
others ? — Avow, proud heart,” cont-aued he, addressing himself, 
“ that the weal of Holy Church interests thee less in this matter 
than thine own humiliation — Yes, Heaven has punished thee 
even in that point in which thou didst deem thyself most strong, 
in thy spiritual pride and thy carnal wisdom. Thou hast laughed 
at and derided the inexperience of thy brethren — stoop thyself 
in turn to their derision — tell what they may not believe — affirm 
that which they will ascribe to idle fear, or perhaps to idle false- 
hood — sustain the disgrace of a silly visionary, or a wilful de- 
ceiver. — Be it so ; I will do my duty, and make ample confession 
to my Superior. If the discharge of this duty destroys my use- 
fulness in this house, God and Our Lady will send me where I 
can better serve them.” 

There was no little merit in tlie resolution thus piously and 
generously formed by Father Eustace. To men of any rank the 
esteem of their order is naturally most dear; but in the monastic 
esffiblishment, cut off, as the brethren are, from other objects of 
ambition, as well as from all exterior friendship and relation- 
ship, the place which they hold in the opinion of each other is all 
in all. 

But the consciousness how much he should rejoice the Abbot 
and most of the other monies of Saint Mary’s, who were impatient 
of the unauthorized, yet irresistible control, which he was wont to 
exercise in the affairs of the convent, by a confession which would 
put him in a ludicrous, or perhaps even in a criminal point of view, 
could not weigh with Father Eustace in comparison with the task 
which his belief enjoined. 

As, strong in his feelings of duty, he approached the exterior 
gate of the Monastery, he was surprised to see torches gleaming, 
and men assembled around it, some on horseback, some on foot, 
while several of the monks, distinguished through the night by 
their white scapularies, were making themselves busy among the 
cx’owd. The Sub-Prior was received with a unanimous shout of 
joy, which at once made him sensible that he had himself been 
the object of their anxiety. 

" There he is ! there he is ! God be thanked — there he is, hale 
and fear !” exclaimed tho vassals ; while the monks exclaimed, 
“ Te Deum laudamus — the blood of thy servants is precious in 
thy sight 1” 


112 


THE MONASTERY. 


What is the matter, children ? what is the matter, my bre- 
thren said Father Eustace, dismounting at the gate. 

“ Nay, brother, if thou know’st not, we will not tell thee till thou 
art in the refectoi’y,” answered the monks ; “ Suffice it that the 
Lord Abbot had ordered these, our zealous and faithful vassals, 
instantly to set forth to guard thee from imminent peril — Ye 
may ungirth your horses, children, and dismiss ; and to-morrow, 
each who was at this rendezvous may send to the convent kitchen 
for a quarter of a yard of roast beef, and a black-jack full of 
double ale.” * 

The vassals dispersed with joyful acclamation, and the monks, 
with equal jubilee, conducted the Sub-Prior into the refectoi’y. 


CHAPTER X. 

Here we stand 

Woundless and well, may Heaven’s high name be bless’d for’t ! 

As erst, ere treason couch’d a lance against us. 

Decker. 

No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refectory by his 
rejoicing companions, than the first person on whom he fixed his 
eye proved to be Christie of the Clinthill. He was seated in the 
chimney-corner, fettered and guarded, his features drawn into 
that air of sulky and turbid resolution with which those hardened 
' in guilt are accustomed to view the approach of punishment. 
But as the Sub-Prior drew near to him, his face assumed a more 
wild and startled expression, while he exclaimed — “ The devil ! 
the devil himself, brings the dead back upon the living !” 

“ Nay,” said a monk to him, “ say rather that Our Lady foils 
the attempts of the wicked on her faithful servants — our dear 
brother lives and moves.” 

“ Lives and moves !” said the ruffian, rising and shuffling 
towards the Sub-Prior as well as his chains would permit ; “ nay, 
then I will never trust ashen shaft and steel point more — It is 
even so,” he added, as he gazed on the Sub-Prior with astonish- 
ment ; “ neither wem nor wound — not as much as a rent in his 
frock !” 

“ And whence should my wound have come ?” said Father 
Eustace. 

“ From the good lance that never failed me before,” replied 
Christie of the Clinthill. 

“ Heaven absolve thee for thy purpose !” said the Sub-Prior ; 
“ wouldst thou have slain a servant of the altar ?” 

* It was one of the few reminiscences of Old Parr, or Henry Jenkins,! forget 
wliich, that, at some convent in the veteran’s neiglibourhood, the community 
before the dissolution. uJed to dole out roast-beef by the measure of feet and 
yards. 


THE MONASTERY, 


113 


“To cliooso !” answered Christie, “the Fifenieii say, an the 
whole pack of ye 'vere slain, there were more lost at Flodden.” 

“ Villain ! art tliou hei'etic as well as murderer ?” 

“ Not I, by Saint Giles,” replied the rider ; “ I listened blithely 
enough to the Laird of Monance, Avhen he told me ye were all 
cheats and knaves ; but when he would have had me go hear one 
Wiseheart, a gospeller, as they call him, he might as well have 
persuaded the wild colt that had flung one rider to kneel down 
and help another into the saddle.” 

“ There is some goodness about him yet,” said the Sacristan to 
the Abbot, who at that moment entered — “ He refused to hear a 
heretic preacher.” 

“ The better for him in the next world,” answered the Abbot. 
“ Prepare for death, my son, — we deliver thee over to the seni- 
lar arm of our bailie, for execution on the Gallow-hill by peep of 
light.” 

“ Amen !” said the ru.'flan ; “ ’tis the end I must have come by 
sooner or later — and what care I whether I feed the crows at 
Saint Mary’s or at Carlisle ?” 

“ Let me implore your reverend patience for an instant,” saiil 
the Sub-Prior ; “ until I shall inquire ” 

“ What !” exclaimed the Abbot, observing him for the first 
time — “Our dear brother restored to us when his life was un- 
hoped for ! — nay, kneel not to a sinner like me — stand up — 
thou hast my blessing. When this villain came to the gate, 
accused by his own evil conscience, and crying out he had mur- 
dered thee, I thought that the pillar of our main aisle had fallen 
— no more shall a life so precious be exposed to such risks as 
jccur in this border country ; no longer shall one beloved and 
rescued of Heaven hold so low a station in the church as that of 
a poor Sub-Prior — I will write by express to the Primate for 
thy speedy removal and advancement.” 

*“ Nay, but let me understand,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ did this 
soldier say he had slain me ?” 

“ That he had transfixed you,” answered the Abbot, “ in full 
career with his lance — but it seems he had taken an indifferent 
aim. But no sooner didst thou fall to the ground mortally gored, 
as he deemed, with his weapon, than our blessed Patroness ap- 
peared to him, as he averred ” 

“ I averred no such thing,” said the prisoner ; “ I said a 
woman in white interrupted me, as I was about to examine the 
priest’s cassock, for they are usually well lined — she had a bul- 
rush in her hand, with ore touch of which she struck me from 
my horse, as I might strif.e down a child of four years old witli 
an iron mace — and then, like a singing fiend as she was, ah>* 
sung to me, 

‘ Tliank tlie liolly-biisli 
That nods on thy brov;; 

Or with this slender rush 
I had strangled thee now.* 

U 


X* 


THE MONASTERY. 


114 

I gatlierod myself up Vt itli fear and difficulty, threw myself on my 
horse, and came hither like a fool to get myself hanged for a rogue.*' 

“ Thou seest, honoured brother,” said the Abbot to the Sub- 
Prior, ‘‘in what favour thou art with our blessed Patroness, 
that she herself becomes the guardian of thy paths — Not since 
the days of our blessed founder hatii she shewn such grace to 
any one. All unworthy were we to hold spiritual superiority 
over thee, and we pray thee to prepare for thy speedy removal 
to Absrbrothwick.” 

“ Alas ! my lord and father,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your words 
pierce luy very soul. Under the seal of confession w’ill I pre- 
sently tell thee why I conceive myself rather the baffled sport 
of a spirit of another sort, than the protected favourite of the 
heavenly powers. But first let me ask this unhappy man a ques- 
tion or two.” 

“ Do as ye list,” replied the Abbot — “ but you shall not 
convince me that it is fitting you remain in this inferior office m 
the convent of Saint Mary.” 

“ I would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, “ for 
what purpose he nourished the thought of putting to death one 
who never did him evil ?” 

“ Ay ! but thou didst menace me with evil,” said the ruffian, 
“ and no one but a fool is menaced twice. Dost thou not remem- 
ber what you said touching the Primate and Lord J ames, and 
the black pool of Jedwood I Didst thou think me fool enough t(! 
wait till thou hadst betrayed me to the sack and the fork I There 
were small wisdom in that, methinks — as little as in coming 
hitlier to tell my own misdeeds — 1 think the devil was in me 
when 1 took this road — I might have remembered the proverb, 
‘ Never Fnar forgot feud.’ ” 

“ And it was solely for that — for that only hasty word of 
mine uttered in a moment of impatience, and forgotten ere it was 
well spoken ?” said Father Eustace. 

“Ay! for that, and — for the love of thy gold crucifix,” said 
Cliristie of the Clinthill. 

“ Gracious Heaven! and could the yellow metal — the glitter- 
ing earth — so far overcome every sense of what is thereby 
represented? — Father Abbot, I pray, as a dear boon, you will 
deliver this guilty person to my mercy.” 

“ Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, “ to your doom, if 
you will, not to your mercy — Remember, we are not all equally 
favoured by our blessed Lady, nor is it likely that every frock in 
the Convent will serve as a coat of proof when a lance is couched 
against it.” 

“ For that very reason,” said the Sub-Pinor, “ I would not tliat 
for my worthless self the community were to fall at feud with 
Julian of Avenel, this man’s master.” 

“Our Lady forbid!” said the Sacristan, “he is a second 
Julian the Apostate ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


115 


‘‘ With our reverend father the Abbot's permission, then,” said 
Father Eustace, “I desire this man be freed from his chains, 
and suffered to depart uninjured ; — and here, friend,” he added, 
giving him the golden crucifix, “ is the image for which thou 
wert willing to stain thy hands with murder. View it well, and 
may it inspire thee with other and better *houghts than those 
which referred to it as a piece of bullion. Part with it, neverthe- 
less, if thy necessities require, and get thee one of such coarse 
substance that Mammon shall have no share in any of the reflec- 
tions to which it gives rise. It was the bequest of a dear friend 
to me ; but dearer service can it never do than that of winning a 
soul to Heaven.” 

The Borderer, now freed from his chains, stood gazing alter- 
nately on the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix. “ By Saint 
Giles,” said he, “ I understand ye not ! — An ye give me gold for 
couching my lance at thee, what would you give me to level it at 
a heretic ?” 

“ The Church,” said the Sub-Prior, " will try the effect of her 
spiritual censures to bring these stray sheep into the fold, ere 
she employ the edge of the sword of Saint Peter.” 

Ay, but,” said the ruffian, “ they say the Primate recom- 
mends a little strangling and burning in aid both of censure and 
of sword. But fare ye weel, I owe j^ou a life, and it may be I 
will not forget my debt.” 

The baihe now came bustling in dressed in his blue coat and 
bandaliers, and attended by two or three halberdiers. “ I have 
been a thought too late in waiting upon your reverend lordship. 
I am grown somewhat fatter since the field of Pinkie, and my 
leathern coat slips not on so soon as it was wont ; but the dungeon 
is ready, and though, as I said, I have been somewhat late ” 

Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the officer’s 
nose, to his great amacament. 

“ You have been indeed somewhat late, bailie,” said he, "and 
I am greatly obligated to your bufiP-coat, and to the time you took 
to put it on. If the secular arm had arrived some quarter of an 
hour sooner, I had been out of the reach of spiritual grace ; but 
as it is, I wish you good even, and a safe riddance out of your 
garment of durance, in which you have much the air of a hog in 
armour.” 

Wroth was the bailie with this comparison, and exclaimed in 
ire — " An it were not for the presence of the venerable Lord 
Abbot, thou knave ” 

“ Nay, an thou wouldst try conclusions,” said Christie of the 
Clinthill, " I will meet thee at day-break by Saint Mary’s well.’’ 

" Hardened wretch !” said Father Eustace, "art thou but this 
instant delivered from death, and dost thou so soon morse thoughts 
of slaughter 1” 

“ I will meet with thee ere if be long, thou knave,” said the 
bailie, " and teach thee thine Oromus.” 


116 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ I will meet thy cattle in a moonlight night before that day/^ 
Eaid he of the Clinthill. 

« I will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou strong, 
thief,” answered the secular officer of the church. 

“ Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” retorted 
Christie ; “and if the -worms were once feasting on that fat carcass 
of thine, I might well hope to have thine office, by favour of these 
reverend men.” 

“ A cast of their office, and a cast of mine,” answered the 
bailie ; “ a cord and a confessor, that is all thou wilt have 
from us.” 

“ Sirs,” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren began 
to take more interest than was exactly decorous in this wrangling 
betwixt justice and iniquity, “ I pray you both to depart — Master 
Bailie, retire with your halberdiers, and trouble not the man 
whom we have dismissed. — And thou, Christie, or whatever be 
thy name, take thy departm’e, and remember thou owest thy life 
to the Lord Abbot’s clemency.” 

“ Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “ I judge that T owe it to 
your own ; but impute it to whom ye list, I owe a life among ye, 
and there is an end.” And whistling as he went, he left the 
apartment, seeming as if he held the life which he had forfeited 
not worthy farther thanks. 

“ Obstinate even to brutality !” said Father Eustace ; “and yet 
who knows but some better ore may lie under so rude an 
exterior ?” 

“Save a thief from the gallows,” said the Sacristan — “you 
know the rest of the proverb ; and admitting, as may Heaven 
grant, tliat our lives and limbs are safe from this outrageous 
knave, who shall insure our meal and our malt, our herds and 
our flocks ?” 

“ Marry, that wall I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. “ Ah, 
brethren, you little know wdiat may be made of a repentant 
robber. In Abbot Ingih-am’s days — ay, and I remember them 
as it w'ere yesterday — the freebooters were the best w^elcome men 
that came to Saint Mary’s. Ay, they paid tithe of every drove 
that they brought over from the South, and because they were 
something lightly come by, I have known them make the tithe a 
seventh — that is, if their confessor knew his business — ay, when 
we saw from the tower a score of fat bullocks, or a drove of sheep 
coming down the valley, with tw^o or three stout men-at-arms 
behind them with their glittering steel caps, and their black-jacks, 
and their long lances, the good Lord Abbot Ingilram w'as wont to 
say — he w-as a mei-ry man — there come the tithes of the spoilers 
of the Egyptians ! Ay, and I have seen the famous John the 
Armstrang, — a fair man he was and a goodly, the moi-e pity that 
hemp was ever heckled for him — T have seen him come into the 
Abbey-Church. with nine tassels of gold in his bonnet, and every 
tassel made of nine English nobles, and he would go from chapel to 


THE MONASTERY. 


117 

chapel, and from image to image, and from altar to altar, on his 
knees- — and leave here a tassel, and there a noble, till there was 
as little gold on his bonnet as on my hood — you will find no such 
Border thieves now !” 

“ No truly. Brother Nicolas,” answered the Abbot ; “ they are 
more apt to take any gold the Church has left, than to bequeath 
or bestow any — and for cattle, beshrew me if I think they care 
whether beeves have fed on the meadows of Lanercost Abbey or 
of Saint Mary’s !” 

“ There is no good thing left in them,” said Father Nicolas ; 
“they are clean naught — Ah, the thieves that I have seen! — 
such proper men ! and as pitiful as pi’oper, and as pious as 
pitiful !” 

“ It skills not talking of it. Brother Nicolas,” said the Abbot ; 
“ and I will now dismiss you, my brethren, holding your meeting 
upon this our inquisition concerning the danger of our reverend 
Sub-Prior, instead of the attendance on the lauds this evening — 
Yet let the bells be duly rung for the edification of the laymen 
without, and also that the novices may give due reverence. — And 
now, benedicite, brethren ! The cellarer will bestow on each a 
grace-cup and a morsel as ye pass the buttery, for ye have been 
turmoiled and anxious, and dangerous it is to fall asleep in such 
case with empty stomach.” 

“ Gratias agimus quam maximas, Domine re'cerendissime^’ 
replied the brethren, departing in their due order. 

But the Sub-Prior remained behind, and falling on his knees 
before the Abbot, as he was about to withdraw, craved him to 
hear under the seal of confession the adventures of the day. The 
reverend Lord Abbot yawned, and would have alleged fatigue ; 
but to Father Eustace, of all men, he was ashamed to shew 
indifference in his religious duties. The confession, therefore, 
proceeded, in which Father Eustace told all the extraordinary 
circumstances which had befallen him during the journey. And 
being questioned by the Abbot, whether he was not conscious of 
any secret sin, through which he might have been subjected for 
a time to the delusions of evil spirits, the Sub-Prior admitted with 
frank avowal, that he thought he might have deserved such 
j)enance for having judged with unfraternal rigour of the report 
of Father Philip the Sacristan. 

“ Heaven,” said the penitent, “ may have been willing to con- 
vince me, not only that he can at pleasure open a communication 
betwixt us and beings of a different, and, as we word it, super- 
natural class, but also to punish our pride of superior wisdom, or 
superior courage, or superior learning.” 

It is well said that virtue is its own reward ; and I question if 
duty was ever more completely recompensed, than by the audience 
wliich the reverend Abbot so unwillingly yielded to the confession 
of the Sub-Prior. To find the object of his fear shall we say, or 
of his envy, or of both, accusing himself of the very error with 


THE MONASTERY. 


118 

wliicli lie had so tacitly charged him, was at ouce a corroboration 
of the Abbot’s judgment, a soothing of his pride, and an allaying 
of his fears. The sense of triumph, however, rather increased 
than diminished his natimal good-humour ; and so far was Abbot 
Boniface from being disposed to tyrannize over his Sub-Prior, in 
consequence of this discovery, that in his exhortation he hovered 
somewhat ludicrously betwixt the natural expression of his own 
gratified vanity, and his timid reluctance to hurt the feelings ol 
Father Eustace. 

My brother,” said he, ex cathedra, “ it cannot have escaped 
your judicious observation, that we have often declined our own 
iudgment in favour of j’uar opinion, even about those matters 
which most nearly concerned the community. Nevertheless, 
grieved would we be, could you think that we did this either 
because we deemed our own opinion less pregnant, or our wit 
more shallow, than that of our other brethren. For it was done 
exclusively to give our younger brethren, such as your much 
esteemed self, my dearest brother, that courage which is necessary 
to a free deliverance of your opinion, — we ofttimes setting apart 
our proper judgment, that our inferiors, and especially our dear 
brother the Sub-Prior, may be comforted and encouraged in 
proposing valiantly his own thoughts. Which our deference and 
humility may, in. .some sort, have produced in your mind, most 
reverend brother, that self-opinion of parts and knowledge, which 
hath led unfortunately to your over-estimating your own faculties, 
and thereby subjecting yourself, as is but too visible, to the japes 
and mockeries of evil spirits. For it is assured that Heaven always 
holdeth us in the least esteem when we deem of ourselves most 
highly ; and also, on the other hand, it may be that we have 
somewhat departed from what became our high seat in this 
Abbey, in suffering ourselves to be too much guided, and even as 
it were cont’r^^cd, by the voice of our inferior. Wherefore,” con- 
tinued the Lord Abbot, in both of us such faults shall and must 
be amended — you hereafter presuming less upon your gifts and 
carnal wisdom, and I taking heed not so easily to relinquish mine 
own opinion for that of one lower in place and in office. Never- 
theless, we would not that we should thereby lose the high advan- 
tage which we have derived, and may yet derive, from your wise 
counsels, which hath been so often recommended to us by our 
most reverend Primate. Wherefore, on affairs of high moment, 
we will call you to our presence in private, and listen to your 
opinion, which, if it shall agree with our own, we will deliver to 
the Chapter, as emanating directly from ourselves ; thus sparing 
you, dearest brother, that seeming victory which is so apt to 
engender spiritual pride, and avoiding ourselves the temptation of 
falling into that modest facility of opinion, whereby our office is 
lessened and our person (were that of consequence) rendered less 
important in the eyes of the community over which we preside.” 

Notwithstanding the high notions which, as a rigid Catholic, 


THE xMONASTERY. 


119 

Father Eustace entertained of the sacrament of confession, as his 
chm’ch calls it, tliere was some danger that a sense of the ridicu- 
lous might have stolen on him, when he heard his Superior, with 
such simple cunning, lay out a little plan for availing himself of 
the Sub-Prior’s wisdom and experience, while he should take the 
whole credit to himself. Yet his conscience immediately told him 
that he was right. 

“ I should have thought more,” he reflected, of the spiritual 
Superior, and less of the individual. I should have spread my 
mantle over the frailties of my spiritual father, and done what 1 
might to support his character, and, of coui'se, to extend his uti- 
lity among the brethren, as well as with others. The Abbot 
cannot be humbled, but what the community must be humbled in 
his person. Her boast is, that over all her children,, especially 
over those called to places of distinction, she can diffuse those 
gifts which are necessary to render them illustrious.” 

Actuated by these sentiments. Father Eustace frankly assented 
to the charge which his Superior, even in that moment of autho- 
rity, had rather intimated than made, and signified his humble 
acquiescence in any mode of communicating his counsel whicli 
might be most agreeable to the Lord Abbot, and might best 
remove from himself all temptation to glory in his own wisdom. 
He then prayed the reverend Father to assign him such penance 
as might best suit his offence, intimating at the same time, that he 
had already fasted the whole day. 

And it is that I complain of,” answered the Abbot, instead of 
giving him credit for his abstinence ; “ it is these very penances, 
fasts, and vigils, of which we complain ; as tending only to gene- 
rate airs and fumes of vanity, which, ascending from the stomach 
into the head, do but puff us up with vain-glory and self-opinion. 
It is meet and beseeming that novices should undergo fasts and 
vigils ; for some part of every community must fast, and young 
stomachs may best endure it. Besides, in them it abates wicked 
thoughts, and the desire of worldly delights. But, reverend 
brother, for those to fast who are dead and mortified to the world, 
as T and thou, is work of supererogation, and is but the matter of 
sph’itual pride. Wherefore, I enjoin thee, most reverend brother, 
go to the buttery, and drink two cups at least of good \vine, eating 
w'ithal a comfortable morsel, such as may best suit thy taste and 
stomach. And in respect that thine opinion of thy own wisdom 
hath at times made thee less conformable to, and companionable 
with, the weaker and less learned bretlmen, I enjoin tliee, during 
the said repast, to choose for thy companion our reverend brother 
Nicolas, and without interruption or impatience, to listen for a 
stricken hour to his narration, concerning those things whicli 
befell in the times of oiu* venerable predecessor. Abbot Ingilram, 
on whose soul may Heaven have mercy ! And for such holy 
exercises as may farther advantage your soul, and expiate the 
faults whereof you have contritely and humbly avowed yomself 


120 


THE MONASTERY. 


guilty, wc will ponder upon that matter, and announce our will 
unto you the next morning.” 

It was remarkable, that after this memorable evening, the 
feelings of the worthy Abbot towards his adviser were much more 
Icindly and friendly than when he deemed the Sub-Prior the 
impeccable and infallible per.son, in whose garment of virtue and 
wisdom no flaw was to be discerned. It .seemed as if this avowal 
of his own imperfections had recommended Father Eustace to the 
friendship of the Superior, although at the same time this increase 
of benevolence was attended with some circumstances, which, to 
a man of the Sub-Prior’s natural elevation of mind and tempei*, 
were more grievous than even undergoing the legends of tlie dull 
and verbose Father Nicolas. For instance, the Abbot .seldom 
mentioned him to the other monks, without designing him our 
beloved Brother Eustace, poor man ! — and now and then he used 
to wai’n the younger brethren against the snares of vain-glory 
and spiritual j)ride, which Satan sets for the more rigidly right- 
eous, with such looks and demonstrations as did all but expressly 
designate the Sub-Prior as one who had fallen at one time under 
such delusions. Upon these occasions, it required all the votiv^e 
obedience of a monk, all the philosophical discipline of the schools, 
and all the patience of a Christian, to enable Father Eustace to 
endure the pompous and patronizing parade of his honest, but 
somewhat thick-headed Superior. He began himself to be 
desirous of leaving the Monastery, or at least he manifestly 
declined to interfere with its affairs, in that marked and authori- 
tative manner, which he had at first practised. 


CHAPTER XL 

V oil call this education, do you not ? 

AVliy ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks 
liefore a shouting drover. The glad van 
3Iove on at ease, and pause a while to snatch 
A passing morsel from the dewy greensward, 

AVhile all the blows, the oaths, the indignation. 

Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 
Tluat cripides in the rear. 

Old Play. 

Two or three years glided on, during which the storm of the 
approaching alteration in church government became each day 
louder and more perilous. Owing to the circumstances which wo 
have intimated in the end of the last chapter, the Sub- Prior 
Eustace appeared to have altered considerably his habits of life. 
He afforded, on all extraordinary occasions, to the Abbot, whether 
privately, or in the assembled Chapter, the support of his wisdom 
and experience ; but in his ordinary habits he seemed now to 
live more for himself, and less for the community, than had boon 
his former practice. 


THE MONASTERY. 


121 

lie often aLsentcd himself for whole days from the convent ; 
nnd as the adventure of Glendearg dwelt deeply on his memory; 
he was repeatedly induced to visit that lonely tower, and to take 
an interest in the orphans who had their shelter under its roof. 
Besides, he felt a deep anxiety to know whether the volume which 
he had lost, when so strangely preserved from the lance of the 
murderer, had again found its way back to the Tower of Glen- 
dearg. “It was strange,” he thought, “ that a spirit,” for such 
he could not help judging the being whose voice he had heard, 
“ should, on the one side, seek the advancement of heresy, and, 
on the other, interpose to save the life of a zealous Catholic 
priest.” 

But from no inquiry which he made of the various inhabitants 
of the Tower of Glendearg could he learn that the copy of the 
translated Scriptures, for which he made such diligent inquiry, 
had again been seen by any of them. 

In the meanwhile the good father’s occasional visits were of no 
small consequence to Edward Glendinning and to Mary Avenel. 
The former displayed a power of apprehending and retaining 
whatever w'as taught him, which filled Father Eustace with admi- 
ration. He w'.as at once acute and industrious, alert and accui'ate ; 
one of those rare combinations of talent and industry, wdiich are 
seldom united. 

It was the earnest desire of Father Eustace that the excellent 
qualities thus early displayed by Edw’ard should be dedicated to 
the service of the church, to which he thought the youth’s own 
consent might be easily obtained, as he w^as of a calm, contempla- 
tive, retired habit, and seemed to consider knowledge as the p7'in* 
cipal object, and its enlargement as the greatest pleasure, in life, 
As to the mother, the Sub-Prior had little doubt that, trained as 
she w’as to view the monks of Saint Mary’s wdth such profound 
reverence, she w'ould be but too happy in an opportunity of 
enrolling one of her sons in its honoured community. But the 
good Father proved to be mistaken in both these particulars. 

When he spoke to Elspeth Glendinning of that wdiich a mother 
best loves to hear — the proficiency and abilities of her son — she 
listened with a delighted ear. But when Father Eustace hinted 
at the duty of dedicating to the service of the church, talents 
which seemed fitted to defend and adorn it, the dame endeavoured 
always to shift the subject ; and when pressed farther, enlarged 
on her own incapacity, as a lone w^oman, to manage the feu ; on 
the advantage which her neighbours of the township w’ere often 
taking of her unprotected state, and on the wish she had that 
Edwai’d might fill his father’s place, remain in the tower, and 
close her eyes. 

On such occasions the Sub-Pidor would answ'ei’, that even in a 
worldly point of view the w'elfare of the family w'ould be best con- 
sulted by one of the sons entering into the community of Saint 
.Mary’s, as it was not to be supposed that he would fail to aiford 


122 


THE MONASTERY. 


his family tlie important protection wliich he could then easily 
extend towards them. What could be a more pleasing prospect 
than to see him high in honour ? or what more sweet than to have 
the last duties rendered to her by a son, revered for his holiness 
of life and exemplary manners ? Besides, he endeavoured to 
impress upon the d^me that her eldest son, Halbert, whose bold 
temper and headstrong indulgence of a wandering humour, 
rendered him incapable of learning, was, for that reason, as well 
as that he was her eldest born, fittest to bustle through the affairs 
of the world, and manage the little fief. 

Elspeth durst not directly dissent from what was proposed, for 
fear of giving displeasure, and yet she always had something to 
say against it. Halbert, she said, was not like any of the neigh- 
bour boys — he was taller by the head, and stronger by the half, 
than any boy of his years within the Halidome. But he was fit 
for no peaceful work that could be devised. If he liked a book 
ill, he liked a plough or a pattle worse. He had scoured his 
father’s old broadsw'ord — suspended it by a belt round his Avaist, 
and seldom stirred without it. He was a sweet boy and a gentle 
if spoken fair, but cross him and he was a born devil. '‘‘In a 
word,” she said, bursting into tears, “depidve me of Edward, 
good father, and ye bereave my house of prop and pillar ; for my 
heart tells me that Halbert will take to his father’s gates, and die 
his father’s death.” 

When the conversation came to this crisis, the good-humoured 
monk was always content to drop the discussion for the time, 
ti’usting some opportunity would occur of removing her preju- 
dices, for such he thought them, against Edward’s proposed desti- 
nation. 

When, leaving the mother, the Sub-Prior addressed himself to 
the son, animating his zeal for knowledge, and pointing out how 
amply it might be gratified should he agree to take holy orders, 
he found the same repugnance which Dame Elspeth had exhibited. 
Edward pleaded a want of sufficient vocation to so serious a pro- 
fession — his reluctance to leave his mother, and other objections, 
which the Sub-Prior treated as evasive. 

“ I plainly perceive,” he said one day, in answer to them, “ that 
the devil has his factors as well as Heaven, and that they are 
equally, or, alas ! the former are perhaps more active, in be- 
speaking for their master the first of the market. I trust, young 
man, that neither idleness, nor licentious pleasure, nor the love 
of worldly gain and worldly grandeur, the chief baits with which 
the great Fisher of souls conceals his hook, are the causes of your 
declimng the career to wliich I would incite you. But above all 
1 trust — above all I hope — that the vanity of superior knowledge 
— a sin with which those who have 'T'ade proficiency in learning 
are most frequently beset — has not led you into the awful hazaid 
of listening to the dangerous doctrines which ai’e now afloat con- 
cerning religion. Better for you that you were as grossly igno- 


THE MONASTERY. 


123 

rant as the beasts which perish, than that the pride of knowledge 
should induce you to lend an ear to the voice of the heretics.” 
Edward Glendinning listened to the rebuke with a downcast look, 
and failed not, when it was concluded, earnestly to vindicate him- 
self from the charge of having pushed his studies into any subjects 
which the Church inhibited ; and so the monk was left to form 
vain conjectures respecting the cause of his reluctance to embrace 
the monastic state. 

It is an old proverb, used by Chaucer, and quoted by Eliza- 
beth, that “ the greatest clerks are not the wisest men and it is 
as true as if the poet had not rhymed, or the queen reasoned on 
it. If Father Eustace had not had his thoughts turned so much 
to the progress of heresy, and so little to what was passing in the 
tower, he might have read, in the speaking eyes of Mary Avenel, 
now a girl of fourteen or fifteen, reasons which might disincline 
her youthful companion towards the monastic vows. I have said, 
that she also was a promising pupil of the good father, upon whom 
her innocent and infantine beauty had an effect of which he was 
himself, perhaps, unconscious. Her rank and expectations en- 
titled her to be taught the arts of reading and writing ; — and 
each lesson which the monk assigned her was conned over in 
company with Edward, and by him explained and re-explained, 
and again illustrated, until she became perfectly mistress of it. 

In the beginning of their studies. Halbert had been their 
school companion. But the boldness and impatience of his dis- 
position soon quarreled with an occupation in which, without 
assiduity and unremitted attention, no progress was to be ex- 
pected. The Sub-Prior’s visits were at irregular intervals, and 
often weeks would intervene between them, in which case Hal- 
bert was sure to forget all that had been prescribed for him to 
learn, and much which he had partly acquired before. His defi- 
ciencies on these occasions gave him pain, but it was not of that 
sort which produces amendment. 

For a time, like all who are fond of idleness, he endeavoured 
to detach the attention of his brother and Mary Avenel from 
their task, rather than to learn his own, and such dialogues as 
the following would ensue. 

“ Take your bonnet, Edward, and make haste — the Laird of 
Colmslie is at the head of the glen with his hounds.” 

“ I care not. Halbert,” answei'ed the younger brother ; “ two 
brace of dogs may kill a deer without my being there to seo 
them, and I must help Mary Avenel with her lesson.” 

“ Ay ! you will labour at the monk’s lessons till you turn monk 
yourself,” answered Halbert. — “ Mary, will you go with me, and 
1 will shew you the cushat’s nest I told you of 1” 

“ I cannot go with you. Halbert,” answered Mary, bt'cause I 
must study this lesson — it will take me long to learn it — I am 
sorry I am so dull, for if I coxild get my task as fast as Edward, 
I should like to go with you.’^ 


124 


THE MONASTETvY. 


“ Should you indeed ?” said Halbert ; then j will wait for 
you — and, what is more, I will try to get my lesson also.'"^ 

With a smile and a sigh he took up the primer, and began 
heavily to con over the task which had been assigned him. As if 
banished from the society of the two others, he sat sad and soli- 
tary in one of the deep window-recesses, and after in vain strug- 
gling with the difficulties of his task, and his disinclination to learn 
it, he found himself involuntarily engaged in watching the move- 
ments of the other two students, instead of toiling any longer. 

The picture which Halbert looked upon was delightful in itself, 
but somehow or other it afforded very little pleasure to him. 
The beautiful girl, with looks of simple, yet earnest anxiety, was 
bent on disentangling those intricacies which obstructed her pro- 
gress to knowledge, and looking ever and anon to Edward for 
assistance, while, seated close by her side, and watchful to remove 
every obstacle from her way, he seemed at once to be proud of 
tlie progress which his pupil made, and of the assistance which 
he was able to render her. There was a bond betwixt them, a 
strong and interesting tie, the desire of obtaining knowledge, the 
pride of surmounting difficulties. 

Feeling most acutely, yet ignorant of the nature and source 
of his own emotions. Halbert could no longer endure to look upon 
this quiet scene, but, starting up, dashed his book from him, and 
exclaimed aloud, “ To the fiend I bequeath all books, and the 
dreamers that make them ! — I would a score of Southrons would 
come up the glen, and we should learn how little all this mutter- 
ing and scribbling is worth.” 

Mary Avenel and his brother started, and looked at Halbert 
with surprise, while he went on with great animation, his features 
swelling, and the tears starting into his eyes as he spoke. — “ Yes, 
Mary — I wish a score of Southrons came up the glen this very 
day ; and you should see one good hand, and one good sword, do 
more to protect you, than all the books that were ever opened, 
and all the pens that ever grew on a goose’s wing.” 

Mary looked a little surprised and a little frightened at his 
vehemence, but instantly replied affectionately, “ You arc vexed. 
Halbert, because you do not get your lesson so fast as Edward 
can ; and so am I, for I am as stupid as you — But come, and 
Edward shall sit betwixt us and teach us.” 

“ He shall not teach wie,” said Halbert, in the same angry 
mood ; “ I never can teach him to do any thing that is honour- 
able and manly, and he shall not teach me any of his monkish 
tricks. — 1 hate the monks, with their drawling nasal tone like so 
many frogs, and their long black petticoats like so many women, 
and their reverences, and their lordships, and their lazy vassals, 
that do nothing but peddle in the mire with plough and harrow 
from Yule to Michaelmas. I will call none lord, but him who 
wears a sword to make his title good ; and I will call none man, 
but he that can bear himself manlike and masterful.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


125 

“ For Heaven’s sake, peace, brother !” said Edward ; “ if such 
words were tiikcn up and reported out of the house, they would 
bo our mother’s ruin.” 

“ Report them yourself then, and they will bo your makinn;, 
and nobody’s marring save mine own. Say that Halbert Glen- 
dinning will never be vassal to an old man with a cowl and 
shaven crown, while there are twenty barons who wear casque 
and plume that lack bold followers. Let them grant you these 
wretched acres, and much meal may they bear you to make your 
hrochan.” He left the room hastily, but instantly retui’iied, and 
continued to speak with the same tone of quick and irritated 
feeling. “ And you need not think so much, neither of you, and 
especially you, Edward, need not think so much of your parch- 
ment book there, and your cunning in reading it. By my faith, 
I will soon learn to read as well as you ; and — for I know a 
better teacher than your grim old monk, and a better book than 
his printed breviary ; and since you like scholarcraft so well, 
Mary Avenel, you shall see whether Edward or I have most of 
it.” He left the apartment, and caipe not again. 

“ What can be the matter with Inm V’ said Mary, following 
Halbert with her eyes from the window, as with hasty and 
unequal steps he ran up the wild glen — “Where can your 
brother be going, Edward ? — what book 1 — what teacher does 
he talk of 1” 

“ It avails not guessing,” said Edward. “ Halbert is angry, 
he knows not why, and speaks of he knows not what ; let us go 
again to our lessons, and he will come home when he has tired 
himself with scrambling among the crags as usual.” 

But Mary’s anxiety on account of Halbert seemed more deeply 
rooted. She declined prosecuting the task in which they had 
been so pleasingly engaged, under the excuse of a headach ; nor 
could Edward prevail upon her to resume it again that morning. 

Meanwhile Halbert, his head unbonneted, his features swelled 
with jealous anger, and the tear still in his eye, sped up the wild 
and upper extremity of the little valley of Glendearg with the 
speed of a roebuck, choosing, as if in desperate defiance of the 
difficulties of the way, the wildest and most dangerous paths, and 
voluntarily exposing himself a hundred times to dangers which 
he might have escaped by turning a little aside from them. It 
seemed as if he wished his course to be as straight as that of the 
arrow to its mark. 

He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded clench, or deep 
ravine, which ran down into the valley, and contributed a scanty 
rivulet to the supply of the brook with which Glendearg is 
watered. Up this he sped with the same pi’ecipitate haste which 
had marked his departure from the tower, nor did he pause and 
look around until he had reached the fountain from which the 
rivulet had its rise. 

Here Halbert stopt short, and cast a gloomy, and almost a 


126 


THE MONASTERY. 


frightened glance around him. A huge rock rose in front, from 
a cleft of wliich grew a wild holly-tree, whose dark green branches 
rustled over the spring which arose beneath. The banks on 
either hand rose so high, and approached each other so closely, 
that it was only when the sun was at its meridian height, and 
during the summer solstice, that its rays could reach the bottom 
of the chasm in which he stood. But it was now summer, and 
the hour was noon, so that the unwonted reflection of the sun 
was dancing in the pellucid fountain. 

“ It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to himself ; ‘^and 

now I 1 might soon become wiser than Edward with all his 

pains ! Mary should see whether he alone is fit to be consulted, 
and to sit by her side, and hang over her as she reads, and point 
out every word and every letter. And she loves me better than 
him — I am sure she does — for she comes of noble blood, and 
scorns sloth and cowardice. — And do I myself not stand here 
slothful and cowardly as any priest of them all ? — Why should I 
fear to call upon this form — this shape ? — Already have I 
endured the vision, and why not again ? — What can it do to me, 
who am a man of lith and limb, and have by my side my father’s 
sword I Does my heart beat — do my hairs bristle, at the thought 
of calling up a painted shadow, aud how should I face a band oi 
Southrons in flesh and blood ? By the soul of the first Glendin- 
ning, I will make proof of the charm !” 

He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right foot, 
planted himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his sword, and first 
looking around to collect his resolution, he bowed three times 
deliberately towards the holly -tree, and as often to the little foun- 
tain repeating at the same time, with a determined voice, the fol- 
lowing rhyme : 

“ Tlirice to the holly brake — 

Tlirice to the well: — 

I bid thee awake, 

■\Vhite Maid of Avenel 1 

Noon fleams on the Lake — 

N.;c.<i glows on the Fell — 

Wake thee, O wake, 

White Maid of Avenel I” 

These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the figure 
of a female clothed in white, within three steps of Halbert Glen- 
dinning. 

‘ ‘ I guess ’twas frightful there to see 
A lady richly clad as she — 

JJoautiful exceedingly.”* 


* Coleridge’s Cbristabelle. 


THE MONASTERY. 


127 


CHAPTER XII. 


There ’s something in that ancient superstition, 

"Which, erring as it is, our loves. 

The spring that, with its thousand crystal hubbies. 

Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock 
In secret solitude, may well be deem’d 
The haunt of something purer, more refined. 

And mightier than oui'selves. 

Old Play. 

Youn<3 Halbert Glendinniiig had scarcely pronounced the 
mystical rhymes, than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion 
of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a beautiful female, 
dressed in white, stood within two yards of him. His terror for 
the moment overcame his natural courage, as well as the strong 
resolution which he had formed, that the figure which he had 
now twice seen should not a third time daunt him. But it would 
seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and blood, 
in the consciousness that we stand in presence of a being in form 
like to ourselves, but so different in faculties and nature, that we 
can neither understand its purposes, nor calculate its means of 
pursuing them. 

Halbert stood silent and gasped for bi’eath, his hairs erecting 
themselves on his head — his mouth open — his eyes fixed, and, 
as the sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose, his 
sword pointed towards the apparition. At length, with a voice 
of ineffable sweetness, the White Lady, for by that name we 
shall distinguish this being, sung, or rather chanted, the following 
lines : — 

“ Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me ? 

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee ? 

He that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear nor failing! 

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. 

The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground. 

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound ; 

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay. 

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.” 

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way to 
his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a 
faltering accent, “ In the name of God, what art thou ?” Tlic 
answer was in melody of a different tone and measure : — 

“ What I am I must not shew — 

What I am thou couldst not know — 

Sometliing betwixt heaven and hell — 

Something that neither stood nor fell — 

Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good — may work thee ill. 

Neither substance quite, nor shadow. 

Haunting lonely moor and meadow. 

Dancing by the haunted spring, 

Riding on the whirlwind’s wing} 


128 


THE MONAGTEBY. 


Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion, 

'.Vliilc o’er our frozen minds they pass, 

Like shadows from tlie mirror’d glass. 

Wayward, fickle is our mood. 

Hovering betwixt bad and good, 

Happier than brief-dated man. 

Living twenty times his span ; 

Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the grave ! 

Man awakes to joy or sorrow , 

Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. 

This is all that I can shew — 

This is alt that thou mayest know. 

Tlie White Lady paused, and appeared to await an answer 
but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, the vision 
seemed gradually to fade, and become more and more incor- 
poreal. Justly guessing this to bo a symptom of her disappear- 
ance. Halbert compelled himself to say, — “ Lady, when I saw 
you in the glen, and when you brought back the black book of 
Mary of Avenel, thou didst say T should one day learn to 
read it.” 

The White Lady replied, 

“ Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell, 

To waken me here by the Fairies’ Well. 

Hut thou hast loved the heron and hawk. 

More than to seek my haunted walk ; 

And thou hast loved the lance and the sword, 

Jlore than good text and holy word ; 

And thou hast loved the deer to track. 

More than the lines and the letters black ; 

And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood. 

And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.” 

“ 1 will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert ; “ I desire 
to learn ; and thou didst promise me, that wdien I did so desire, 
thou wouldst be my helper ; I am no longer afraid of thy pre- 
sence, and I am no longer regardless of instruction.” As ho 
uttered these words, the figure of the White jMaiden grew 
gradually as distinct as it had been at first ; and what had well- 
nigh faded into an ill-defined and colourless shadow, again 
assumed an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although 
the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure less distinct 
and defined — so at least it seemed to Halbert — than those of 
an ordinary inhabitant of the earth. “ Wilt thou grant my 
request,” he said, “ fair Lady, and give to my keeping the holy 
book which Mary of Avenel has so often wept for ?” 

The White Lady replied ; 

“ Thy craven fear my truth accused. 

Thine idlehood my trust abused ; 

He tiiat di-awa to harbour late, 
iSIust sleep without, or burst the gate. 

There i.s a star for thee which burn’d. 

Its influence wanes, its course is turn’d ; 

Valour and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that’s liowa,” 


THE MONASTERY , '329 

“If I have been a loiterer, Lady,” answered young Glcndin- 
ning, “tliou shalt now find me willing to press forward with 
double speed. Other thoughts have filled my mind, other thoughts 
have engaged my heart, within a brief period — and by Heaven, 
other occupations shall henceforward fill up my time. I have 
lived in this day the space of years — I came hither a boy — I 
will return a man — a man, such as may converse not only with 
his own kind, but with whatever God permits to be visible to him. 
I will learn the contents of that mysterious volume — I will learn 
wdiy the Lady of Avenel loved it — why the priests feared, and 
would have stolen it — why thou didst twice recover it from 
their hands. — What mystery is wrapt in it ? — Speak, I conjure 
thee !” The lady assumed an air peculiarly sad and solemn, as 
drooping her head, and folding her arms on her bosom, she 
replied : 


“ Within that awful volume lies 
The mystery of mysteries ! 

Happiest they of human race, 

To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray. 

To lift the latch, and force the way ; 

And better had they ne’er been born. 

Who read to doubt, or road to scorn.” 

“ Give me the volume. Lady,” said young Glendi lining. 
“ Tliey call me idle — they call me dull — in this pursuit my 
industry shall not fail, nor, with God’s blessing, shall my under- 
standing. Give me the volume.” The apparition again replied ; 

‘ ‘ Many a fathom dark and deep 
I have laid the book to sleep ; 

Ethereal fires around it glowing — 

Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heav’n 
All things revere. 

Each in his sphere. 

Save man for whom ’twas giv’n : 

Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne’er seen by mortal eye.” 

Halbert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to the White 
Lady. 

“ Fearest thou to go with me 1” she said, as his hand trembled 
at the soft and cold touch of her own — 

“ Fearest thou to go with me ? 

Still it is free to thee 
A peasant to dwell ; 

Thou mayst drive the dull steer, 

And chase the king’s deer, 

But never more come near 
This haunted well.” 

“ If what thou sayest be true,” said the undaunted boy, “ my 
destinies are higher than thine own. There shall be neither well 
nor wood which T dare not visit. No fear of aught, natural or 
supernatural, shall bar my path through my native valley.” 

He had scarce uttered the W'ords, when they both descended 

X. I 


THE MONASTERY. 


130 

through the earth with a rapidity which took away Halbert’a 
breath and every other sensation, saving that of being hurried on 
with the utmost velocity. At length they stopped with a shock 
so sudden, that the mortal journeyer through this unknown space 
must have been thrown down with violence, had he not been up- 
held by his supernatural companion. 

It was more than a minute, ere, looking around him, he beheld 
a grotto, or natural cavern, composed of the most splendid spars 
and crystals, which returned in a thousand prismatic hues the 
light of a brilliant flame that glowed on an altar of alabaster. 
This altar, with its fire, formed the central point of the grotto, 
which was of a round form, and very high in the roof, resembling 
in some respects the dome of a cathedral. Corresponding to the 
four points of the compass, there went off four long galleries, or 
arcades, constructed of the same brilliant materials with the dome 
itself, and the termination of which was lost in darkness. 

No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice to 
describe, the glorious radiance, which, shot fiercely forth by the 
flame, was returned from so many hundred thousand points of 
reflection, afforded by the sparry pillars and their numerous 
angular crystals. The fire itself did not remain steady and 
unmoved, but rose and fell, sometimes ascending in a brilliant 
pyramid of condensed flame half way up the lofty expanse, and 
again fading into a softer and more rosy hue, and hovering, as it 
were, on the surface of the altar to collect its strength for another 
powerful exertion. There was no visible fuel by which it was 
fed, nor did it emit either smoke or vapour of any land. 

What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume so 
often mentioned lay not only unconsumed, but untouched in the 
slightest degree, amid this intensity of fire, which, while it seemed 
to be of force sufficient to melt adamant, had no effect whatever 
on the sacred book thus subjected to its utmost influence. 

The White Lady, having paused long enough to let young Glen- 
dinning take a complete survey of what was around him, now 
said in her usual chant, 

“ Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought ; 

Touch it, and take it, — ’twill dearly bo bought!” 

Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and desperately 
desirous of shewing the courage he had boasted. Halbert plunged 
his hand, without hesitation, into the flame, trusting to the 
rapidity of the motion, to snatch out the volume before the fire 
could greatly affect him. But he was much disappointed. The 
flame instantly caught upon his sleeve, and though he withdrew 
his hand immediately, yet his ai’m was so dreadfully scorched, 
that he had well-nigh screamed with pain. He suppressed the 
natural expression of anguish, however, and only intimated the 
agony which he felt by a contortion and a muttered groan. The 
White Lady passed her cold hand over ins arm, and, ere she had 


THE MONASTETIY. 


131 

finished the following metrical chant, his pain had entirely gone, 
and no mai’k of the scorching was visible : 

“ Rash thy deed, 

Mortal weed 

To immortal dames applying ; 

Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 

On his own weak worth relying • 

Strip thee of such fences vain. 

Strip, and prove thy luck again.” 

Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning of his con- 
ductress, Halbert bared his arm to the shoulder, throwing down 
the remains of his sleeve, which no sooner touched the floor on 
which he stood than it collected itself together, shrivelled itself 
up, and was without any visible fire reduced to light tinder, 
which a sudden breath of wind dispersed into empty space. The 
White Lady, observing the surprise of the youth, immediately 
repeated — • 


“ Mortal warp and mortal woof, 

Cannot brook this charmed roof ; 

All that mortal art hath wrought. 

In our cell returns to nought. 

The molten gold returns to clay. 

The polish’d diamond melts away ; 

All is alter’d all is flown. 

Nought stands fast but truth alone. 

Not for that thy quest give o’er: 

Courage ! prove thy chance once more.” 

Imboldened by her words. Halbert Glendinning made a second 
effort, and, plunging his bare arm into the flame, took out the 
sacred volume without feeling either heat or inconvenience of 
any kind. Astonished, and almost terrified at his own success, 
he beheld the flame collect itself, and shoot up into one long and 
final stream, which seemed as if it would ascend to the very roof 
of the cavern, and then, sinking as suddenly, became totally ex- 
tinguished. The deepest darkness ensued ; but Halbert had no 
time to consider his situation, for the White Lady had already 
caught his hand, and they ascended to upper air with the same 
velocity with which they had sunk into tlie earth. 

They stood by the fountain in the Corri-nan-shian when they 
emerged from the bowels of the earth ; but on casting a bewildered 
glance around him, the youth was surprised to observe, that the 
shadows had fallen far to the east, and that the day was well-nigh 
spent. He gazed on his conductre.ss for explanation, but her 
figure began to fade before his eyes — her cheeks grew paler, her 
features less distinct, her form became shadowy, and blended 
itself with the mist which was ascending the hollow ravine. What 
Jiad late the symmetry of form, and tlie delicate, yet clear hues 
of feminine beauty, now resembled the flitting and pale ghost of 
some maiden who has died for love, as it is seen indistinctly and 
by moonlight, by her perjured lover. 


132 


TriE 3I0XASTi:irY. 


“ Stay, spirit !” said tlie youth, imboldened b}' liis success in 
the subterranean dome, “ thy kindness must not leave me, as one 
encumbered with a ■weapon he knows not how to Avield. Thou 
must teach me tlie art to read, and to understand this volume ; 
else what avails it me that I possess it ? ” 

But the figure of tlie White Lady still waned before his eye, 
until it became an outline as pale and indistinct as that of the 
moon, when the winter morning is far advanced, and ore she had 
ended^ the following chant, she was entirely invisible : — 

‘ ‘ Alas ! alas ! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace ; 

Idle forms of painted air. 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestow’d on Adam’s race I 
With patience bide. 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide.” 

The form was already gone, and now the voice itself hao 
melted away in melancholy cadence, softening, as if the Being 
who spoke had been slowly wafted from the spot where she had 
commenced her melody. 

It was at this mom.ent that Halbert felt the extremity of the 
terror which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. The very 
necessity of exertion had given him spirit to make it, and the 
presence of the mysterious Being, while it w'as a subject of fear 
in itself, had nevei'theless given him the sense of protection being 
near to him. It w^as when he could reflect with composure on 
what had passed, that a cold tremor shot across his limbs, his hair 
bristled, and he was afraid to look around lest he should find at 
his elbow something more frightful than the first vision. A 
breeze arising suddenly realized the beautiful and wild idea oi 
the most imaginative of our modern bards * — 

It farm’d his cheek, it raised liis hair, 

Like a meadow gale in spring ; 

It mingled strangely with his fears. 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

The youth stood silent and astonished for a few minutes. It 
seemed to him that the extraordinary Being he had seen, half his 
teri’or, half his protectress, was still hovering on the gale which 
swept past him, and that she might again make herself sensible 
to his organs of sight. “ Speak !” he said, wildly tossing his arms, 
speak yet again — be once more present, lovely vision ! — thrice 
have I now seen thee, yet the idea of thy invisible presence 
around or beside me, makes my heart beat faster than if the earth 
yawned and gave up a demon.” But neither sound nor appear- 
ance indicated the presence of the White Lady, and nothing pre- 
ternatural beyond what he had already witnessed, was again 


* Coleridge. 


THE MONASTERY. 


133 

audible or visible. Halbert, in the meanwhile, by the \ery exer- 
tion of again inviting the presence of this mysterious Being, had 
recovered his natural audacity. He looked around once more, 
and resumed his solitary path down the valley into whose recesses 
lie had penetrated. 

Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the storm of 
passion with which he had bounded over stock and crag, in order 
to plunge himself into the Corri-nan-Shian, and the sobered mood 
in which he now retunujd homeward, industriously seeking out 
the most practicable path, nbt from a wish to avoid danger, but 
that he might not by personal toil distract his attention, deeply 
lixed on the extraordinary scene which he had witnessed. In the 
i'ormer case, he had sought by hazard and bodily exertion to 
indulge at once the fiery excitation of passion, and to banish the 
cause of the excitement from his recollection ; while now he stu- 
diously avoided all interruption to his contemplative walk, lest the 
difficulty of the way should interfere with, or disturb, his own 
deep reflections. Thus slowly pacing forth his course, with the 
air of a pilgrim rather than of a deer-hunter. Halbert about the 
close of the evening I’egained his paternal tower. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Tlie Miller was of manly make, 

To meet him was na mows ; 

There dui-st na ten come him to take, 

Sae noited he their pows. 

t'h7-ist's Kirk on the G^'cen, 

It was after sunset, as we have already stated, when Halbert 
Gleiidinning returned to the abode of his father. The hour of 
dinner was at noon, and that of supper about an hour after sunset 
at this period of the year. The former had passed without Hal- 
bert’s appearing ; but this was no uncommon circumstance, for 
the chase, or any other pastime which occurred, made Halbert a 
frequent neglecter of hours ; and his mother, though angry and 
disappointed when she saw him not at table, Avas so much accus- 
tomed to his occasional absence, and knew so little how to teach 
him more regularity, that a testy observation was almost all the 
censure with which such omissions were visited. 

On the present occasion, however, the wrath of good Dame 
Elspeth soared higher than usual. It Avas not merely on accomit 
of the special tup’s-head and trotters, the haggis and the side of 
mutton, Avitli Avhich her table Avas set forth, but also because of 
the arriA'al of no less a person than Hob Miller, as he was uni- 
A'ersally termed, though the man’s name Avas Happer. 

The object of the Miller’s visit to the Tower of Glendearg was 
like the purpose of tliose embassies Avhich potentates send to each 


THE MONASTERY. 


134 

other’s courts, partly ostensible, partly politic. In outward 
show, Hobb came to visit his friends of the Halidome, and sliare 
the festivity common among country folk, after the barn-yai*d has 
been filled, and to renew old intimacies by new conviviality. But 
in very truth he also came to have an eye upon the contents oi 
each stack, and to obtain such information respecting the extent 
of the crop reaped and gathered in by each feuar, as might pre- 
vent the possibility of abstracted multures. 

All the world knows that the cultivators of each barony or 
regality, temporal or spiritual, in Scotland, are obliged to bring 
their corn to be grinded at the mill of the territory, for which 
they pay a heavy charge, called the intown multures. I could 
speak to the thirlage of invecta et illata too, but let that pass. 
I have said enough to intimate that I talk not without book. 
Those of the Sucken, or enthralled ground, were liable in penal- 
ties, if, deviating from this thirlage. (or thraldom,) they carried 
their grain to another mill. Now such another mill, erected on 
the lands of a lay -baron, lay witldri a tempting and convenient 
distance of Glendearg ; and the Miller was so obliging, and his 
charges so moderate, that it required Hob Miller’s utmost vigi- 
lance to prevent evasions of his right of monopoly. 

The most effectual means he could devise was this show of good 
fellowship and neighbourly friendship, — under colour of which 
he made his annual cruise through the barony — numbered every 
corn-stack, and computed its contents by the boll, so that he could 
give a shrewd hint afterwards whether or not the grist came to 
the right mill. 

Dame Elspeth, like her compeers, was obliged to take these 
domiciliary visits in the sense of politeness ; but in her case they 
had not occuiTed since her husband’s death, probably because the 
Tower of Glendearg was distant, and there was but a trifling 
quantity of arable or infield land attached to it. This year there 
had been, upon some speculation of old Martin’s, several bolls 
sown in the out-field, which, the season being fine, had ripened 
remarkably well. Perhaps this circumstance occasioned the 
honest Miller’s including Glendearg, on this occasion, in his annual 
round. 

Dame Glendinning received with pleasure a visit which she 
used formerly only to endure with patience ; and she had changed 
her view of the matter chiefly, if not entirely, because Hob had 
brought with him his daughter Mysie, of whose features she could 
give so slight an account, but whose dress she had described so 
accurately to tlie Sub-Prior. 

Hitherto this girl had been an object of very trifling considera- 
tion in the eyes of the good widow ; but the Sub-Prior’s particular 
and somewhat mysterious inquiries had set her brains to work on 
the subject of Mysie of the Mill ; and she had here asked a broad 
question, and there she had thrown out an innuendo, and there 
again she had gradually led on to a conversation on the subject of 


THE MONASTERY. 


135 

poor Mysie. i^.nd from all inquiries and investigations she had 
collected, that Mysie was a dark-eyed laughter-loving wench, with 
cherry-claeeks, and a skin as white as her father’s finest bolted 
flour, out of which was made the Abbot’s own waste! -bi’ead. For 
her temper, she sung and laughed from morning to night ; and 
for her fortune, a material article, besides that which the Miller 
might have amassed by means of his proverbial golden thumb, 
Mysie was to inherit a good handsome lump of land, with a pro- 
spect of the mill and mill-acres descending to her husband on an 
easy lease, if a fair word were spoken in season to the Abbot, and 
to the Prior, and to the Sub-Prior, and to the Sacristan, and so 
forth. 

By turning and again turning these advantages over in her 
own mind, Elspetli at length came to be of opinion, that the only 
way to save her son Halbert from a life of “ spur, spear, and 
snafle,” as they called that of the border-riders, from the dint of 
a cloth-yard shaft, or the loop of an inch-cord, was, that he 
should marry and settle, and that Mysie Happer should be his 
destined bride. 

As if to her wish. Hob Miller arrived on his sti’ong-built mare, 
bearing on a pillion behind him the lovely ^Mysie, with cheeks 
like a peony-rose, (if Dame Glendinning had ever seen one,) 
spirits all afloat with rustic coquetry, and a profusion of hair as 
black as ebony. The beau-ideal which Dame Glendinning had 
been bodying forth in her imagination, became unexpectedly 
realized in the buxom form of Mysie Happer, whom, in tlie 
course of half an hour, she settled upon as the maiden who was to 
fix the restless and untutored Halbert. Time, Mysie, as the 
dame soon saw, was like to love dancing round a may-pole as well 
as managing a domestic establishment, and Halbert was like to 
break more heads than he would grind stacks of corn. But then 
a miller should always be of manly make, and has been described 
so since the days of Chaucer and James I. * Indeed to be able 
to outdo and bully the whole Sucken, (once more we use this bar- 
barous phrase,) in all athletic exercises, was one way to render 
easy the collection of dues which men would have disputed with 
a less formidable champion. Then, as to the deficiencies of the 
miller's wife, the dame was of opinion that they might be supplied 
by the activity of the miller’s mother. “ I will keep house for 
the young folk myself, for the tower is grown very lonely,” 

* The verse we have chosen for a motto, is from a poem imputed to James 1. 
3 f Scotland. As for the Sliller who figures among tlie Canterbury pilgiims, 
oesides his sword and buckler, he boasted other attributes, all of which, but 
especially the last, shew that he relied more on the strength of the outside than 
that of the ins-lde of hisskuU. 

The miller was a stout carl for the nonea. 

Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones ; 

That proved well, for wheresoe’r he cam ; 

At wrestling he wold tiear a« ay the ram ; 
fie was short shoulder’d, broad, a thick gnar; 

There n’aa no door that he n old heave of bar. 

Or break it at a running with his head, Stc. 


136 


THE MONASTERY. 


thought Dame Glendinning, “ and to live near the kirk will be 
mair comfortable in my auld age — and then Edward may agree 
with his brother about the feu, more especially as he is a favourite 
with the Sub-Prior, and then he may live in the auld tow’er like 
his worthy father before him — and wha kens but Mary Avenel, 
high-blood as she is, may e’en draw in her stool to the chimney- 
nook, and sit down here for good and a’ ? — It ’s true she has no 
tocher, but the like of her for beauty and sense ne’er crossed my 
een ; and I have kend every wench in the Halidome of St Mary’s 
— ay, and their mothers that bore them — ay, she is a sweet and 
a lovely creature as ever tied snood over brown hair — ay, and 
then, though her uncle keeps her out of her ain for tlie present 
time, yet it is to be thought the gray-goose shaft will find a hole 
in his coat of proof, as, God help us ! it has done in many a better 
man’s — And, moreover, if they should stand on their pedigree 
and gentle race, Edward might say to them, that is, to her gentle 
kith and kin, ‘ whilk o’ ye was her best friend when she came 
down the glen to Glendearg in a misty evening, on a beast mair 
like a cuddie than aught else ?’ — And if they tax him with 
churl’s blood, Edward might say, that, forby the old proverb, how 

Gentle deed 

Makes gentle bleid ; 

yet, moreover, there comes no churl’s blood from Glendinning or 
Brydone ; for, says Edward ” 

The hoarse voice of the Miller at this moment recalled the 
dame from her reverie, and compelled her to remember that if 
she meant to realize her airy castle, she must begin by laying the 
foundation in civility to her guest and his daughter, whom she 
was at that moment most strangely neglecting, though her whole 
plan turned on conciliating their favour and good opinion, and 
that, in fact, while arranging matters for so intimate a union with 
her company, she was suffering them to sit unnoticed, and in their 
riding gear, as if about to resume their journey. “ And so I say, 
dame,” concluded the Miller, (for she had not marked the begin- 
ning of his speech,) “ an ye be so busied with your housekep, or 
aught else, why, Mysie and I will trot our way down the glen 
again to Johnnie Broxmouth’s, who pressed us right kindly to bide 
with him.” 

Starting at once from her dream of marriages and intermar- 
riages, mills, mill-lands, and baronies. Dame Elspeth felt for a 
moment like the milkmaid in the fable, when she overset the 
pitcher, on the contents of which so many golden dreams were 
founded. But the foundation of Dame Glendinning’s hopes was 
only tottering, not overthrown, and she hastened to restore its 
equilibrium. Instead of attempting to account for her absence of 
mind and want of attention to her guests, which she might have 
found something difficult, she assumed the offensive, like an able 
general when he finds it necessary, by a bold attack, to disguise 
fiis weakness. 


THE MONASTERY. 


137 

A loud exclamation she made, and a passionate complaint she 
set up against the unkindness of her old friend, who could for au 
instant doubt the heartiness of her welcome to him and to his 
hopeful daughter ; and then to think of his going back to John 
Broxmouth’s, when the auld tower stood whore it did, and had 
room in it for a friend or two in the worst of times — and he too 
a neighbour that his umquhile gossip Simon, blessed be his cast, 
used to think the best friend he had in the Hahdome ! And on 
she went, urging her complaint with so much seriousness, that 
she had well-nigh imposed on herself as well as upon Hob Miller, 
who had no mind to take any thing in dudgeon ; and as it suited 
his plans to pass the night at Glendearg, would have been equally 
contented to do so even had his reception been less vehemently 
hospitable. 

To all Elspeth’s expostulations on the unkindness of his j)ropo- 
sal to leave her dwelling, he answered composedly, “ Nay, dame, 
what could I tell ? ye might have had other grist to grind, for ye 
looked as if ye scarce saw us — or what know I ? ye might bear 
in mind the w’ords Martin and I had about the last barley ye 
sawed — for I ken dry multures* will sometimes stick in the 
throat. A man seelvs but his awn, and yet folk shall hold him for 
both miller and miller’s man, that is miliar and knave, + all the 
country over.” 

Alas, that you will say so, neighbour Hob,” said Dame Elspeth, 
“ or that Martin should have had any words with you about the 
mill-dues ! I will chide him roundly for it, T promise you, on 
the faith of a true widow. You know full well that a lone woman 
is sore put upon by her servants.” 

“ Nay, dame,” said the Miller, unbuckling the broad belt which 
made fast his cloak, and served, at the same time, to suspend by 
his side a swinging Andrea Ferrara, ‘‘ bear no grudge at IMartin, 
for I bear none — I take it on me as a thing of mine oflice, to 
maintain my right of multure, lock, and goupen. J And reason 
good, for as the old song says, 

I live by niy mill, God bless her, 

She’s parent, child, and wife. 

The poor old slut, I am beholden to her for my living, and 
bound to stand by her, as I say to my mill-knaves, in right and 

» Dry multures were a fine, or compensation in money, for not grinding at tha 
mill of the thirl. It was, and is, accounted a vexatious c.xaction. 

t The under miller, is in the language of thirlage, called the knave, which, 
indeed, signified originally his lad, {Knabe — German,) but by degrees came to 
be taken in a worse sense. In the old translations of the Ilible, Paul is made to 
term himself the knave of our Saviour. The allowance of meal taken by the 
miller’s servant was called knave-ship. 

t The multure was the regular exaction for grinding the meal. The toc/c, 
signifying a small quantity, and i\\Q goupen, a handful, were additional perquisites 
demanded by the miller, and submitted to or resisted by the Sucketier as circum- 
stances permitted. These and other petty dues were called in general the 
Sequels. 


13S 


THE MONASTERY. 


in wrong. And so sliould every honest fellow stand by his bread- 
winner. — And so, Mysie, ye may doff your cloak since our 
neighbour is so kindly glad to see us — w’hy, T think, we are as 
blithe to see her — not one in the Halidome pays their multures 
more duly, sequels, arriage, and carriage, and mill-services, used 
and wont.” 

With that the ]\Iiller hung his ample cloak without farther 
ceremony upon a huge pair of stag’s antlers, which adorned at 
once the naked walls of the tower, and served for what we vul- 
garly call cloak-pins. 

In the meantime Dame Elspeth assisted to disembarass the 
damsel whom she destined for her future daughter-in-law, of her 
hood, mantle, and the rest of her riding gear, giving her to appear 
as beseemed the buxom daughter of the wealthy ]\Iiller, gay and 
goodly, in a white kirtle, the seams of which were embroidered 
with green silken lace or fringe, entwined with some silver thread. 
An anxious glance did Elspeth cast upon the good-humoured face, 
which was now more fully shewn to her, and was only obscured 
by a quantity of raven black hair, which the maid of the mill 
had restrained by a snood of green silk, embroidered with silver, 
corresponding to the trimmings of her kirtle. The countenance 
itself was exceedingly comely — the eyes black, large, and 
roguishly good-humoured — the mouth was small — the lips well 
formed, though somewhat full — the teeth were pearly whfte — 
and the chin had a very seducing dimple in it. The form be- 
longing to this joyous face was full and round, and firm and fair. 
It might become coarse and masculine some years hence, which 
is the common fault of Scottish beauty ; but in Mysie’s sixteenth 
year she had the shape of a Hebe. The anxious Elspeth, with 
all her maternal partiality, could not help admitting within her- 
self, that a better man than Halbert might go farther and fare 
worse. She looked a little giddy, and Halbert was not nineteen ; 
still it was time he should be settled, for to that point the dame 
always returned ; and here was an excellent opportunity. 

The simple cunning of Dame Elspeth now exhausted itself in 
commendations of her fair guest, from the snood, as they say, to 
the single-soled shoe. Mysie listened and blushed with pleasure 
for the first five minutes ; but ere ten had elapsed, she began to 
view the old lady’s compliments rather as subjects of mirth than 
of vanity, and was much more disposed to laugh at than to be 
flattered with them, for Nature had mingled the good-humour 
with which she had endowed the damsel with no small portion of 
shrewdness. Even Hob himself began to tiro of hearing his 
daughter’s praises, and broke in with, “Ay, ay, she is a clever 
qucim enough ; and, were she five yeai*s older, she shall lay a 
loaded sack on an aver * with e’er a lass in the Ilalidome. But 
I have been looking for your two sons, dame. Men say downby 


• Jver— -properly a horse of labour. 


THE MONASTERY. 


139 

tliat Halbert’s turned a wild springald, and that we may 
have word of him from Westmoreland one moonlight night or 
another.” 

“ God forbid, my good neighbour ; God, in his mercy, forbid !” 
said Dame Gleudinning earnestly ; for it was touching the very 
key-note of her apprehensions, to hint any probability that Hal- 
bert might become one of the marauders so common in the age 
and country. But, fearful of having betrayed too much alarm on 
tills subject, she immediately added, “ That though, since the last 
rout at Pinkie-cleuch, she had been all of a tremble when a giui 
or a spear was named, or when men spoke of fighting ; yet, thanks 
to God and our Lady, her sons were like to live and die honest 
and peaceful tenants to the Abbey, as their father might have 
done, but for that awful hosting which he went forth to, with 
mony a brave man that never returned.” 

“ Ye need not tell me of it, dame,” said the Miller, since I was 
tliere myself, and made two pair of legs (and these were not mine, 
but my mare’s,) worth one paii of hands. I judged how it would 
be, when I saw our host break ranks, with rushing on through 
that broken ploughed field, and so as they had made a pricker of 
me, 1 e’en pricked off with myself while the play was good.” 

“ Ay, ay, neighbour,” said the dame, “ ye were aye a wise and a 
wary man ; if my Simon had had your wit, he might have been 
here to speak about it this day ; but he w'as aye cracldng of his 
good blood and his high kindred, and less would not serve him 
than to bide the bang to the last, with the earls, and knights, and 
squires, that had no wives to greet for them, or else had waves 
that cared not how soon they were w'idows ; but that is not for 
the like of us. But touching my son Halbert, there is no fear of 
him ; for if it should be his misfortune to be in the like case, he 
has the best pair of heels in the Halidome, and could run almost 
as fast as your mare herself.” 

“ Is this he, neighbour ?” quoth tlie Miller. 

“ No,” replied the mother ; “that is my youngest son, Edward, 
who can read and write like the Lord Abbot himself, if it were 
not a sin to say so.” 

“ Ay,” said the Miller ; “ and is that the young clerk the Sub- 
Prior thinks so much of ? they say he wall come far ben that lad ; 
wha kens but he may come to be Sub-Prior himself ? — as broken 
a ship has come to land.” 

“ To be a Prioi', neighbour Miller,” said Edward, “ a man 
must first be a pi‘iest,and for that I judge I have little vocation,” 

“ He will take to the pleugh-pettle, neighbour,” said tlie good 
dame ; “ and so will Halbert too, I trust. I wish you saw Hiil- 
bert. — Edw'ard, w’here is y6ur brother ?” 

“ Hunting, I think,” replied Edward ; “ at least he left us this 
morning to join tlie Laii’d of Colmslie and his hounds. I have 
heard them baying in the glen all day.” 

“ And if 1 had heard that music,” said the Miller, “ it would 


THE MONASTERY, 


140 

have done my heart good, ay, and may be taken me two or tlii-eo 
miles out of my road. When I was the Miller of Morebatttle’s 
knave, I have followed tlie hounds from Eckford to the foot of 
Hounam-law — followed them on foot. Dame Glendinning, ay, and 
led the chase when the Laird of Cessford and his gay riders were 
all thrown out by the mosses and gills. I brought the slag on 
my back to Hounam Cross, when the dogs had pulled him down. 
I tliink I see the old gray luiight, as he sate so upright on his 
strong war-horse, all white with foam ; and ‘ IMiller,’ said he to 
me, ‘ an thou wilt turn thy back on the mill, and wend with me, 
1 will make a man of thee.* But I chose rather to abide by clap 
and happer, and the better luck was mine ; for the proud Percy 
caused hang five of the Laird’s henchmen at Alnwick for burning 
a rickle of houses some gate beyond Fowberry,and it might have 
been my luck as well as another man’s.” 

“Ah, neighbour, neighbour,” said Dame Glendinning, “you 
were aye wise and wary ; but if you like hunting, I must say 
Halbert’s the lad to please you. He hath all those fair holiday- 
terms of hawk and hound as ready in his mouth as Tom with the 
tod’s tail, that is the Lord Abbot’s ranger.” 

“ Ranges he not homeward at dinner-time, dame,” demanded 
the Miller ; “ for we call noon the dinuer-hom* at Kennaquhair ?” 

The widow was forced to admit, that, even at this important 
period of the day. Halbert was frequently absent ; at which the 
Miller shook his head, intimating, at the same time, some allusion 
to the proverb of MacFar lane’s geese, which “ liked their play 
better than their meat.” * 

That the delay of dinner might not increase the jMiller’s dispo- 
sition to prejudge Halbert, Dame Glendinning called hastily on 
Mary Avenel to take her task of entertaining Mysie Happer, 
while she herself rushed to the kitchen, and, entering at once into 
the province of Tibb Tacket, rummaged among trenchers and 
dishes, snatched pots from the fire, and placed pans and gridirons 
on it, accompanying her own feats of personal activity with such 
a continued list of injunctions to Tibb, that Tibb at length lost 
patience, and said, “ Here was as muckle wark about mealing an 
auld miller, as if they had been to banquet the blood of Bruce.” 
But this, as it was supposed to be spoken aside, Dame Glendin- 
oiug did not tiiink it convenient to hear. 


♦ See Note E. 2tIacFa.rlo.vc ' 3 Gme. 


THE MONASTERY. 


141 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Nay, let me have the friends who eat my victuals, 

As various as my dishes. — The feast’s naught. 

Where one hup plate predominates. John Plaiate.xt, 

He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; 

The worthy Alderman, a butter’d dumpling ; 

"S' on pair of whisker’d Comets, ruffs and rees ; 

Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in sippets. 

And so the board is spread at once and fill’d 
On the same principle — Variety. 

New Plan- 

“ And what brave lass Is this V’ said Hob Miller, as Mary 
Avenel entered the apartment to supply the absence of Dame 
Elspeth Glendinning. 

“ The young Lady of Avenel, father,” said the Maid of the 
IMill, di'opping as Ioav a curtsy as her rustic manners enabled her 
to make. The Miller, her father, doffed his bonnet, and made his 
reverence, not altogether so low perhaps as if the young lady had 
appeared in the pride of rank and riches, yet so as to give high 
birth the due homage which the Scotch for a length of time 
scrupulously rendered to it. 

Indeed, from having had her mother’s example before her for 
so many years, and from a native sense of propriety and even of 
dignity, Mary Avenel had acquired a demeanour, which marked 
her title to consideration, and effectually checked any attempt at 
familiarity on the part of those who might be her associates in 
her present situation, but could not be well termed her equals. 
She was by nature mild, pensive, and contemplative, gentle in 
disposition, and most placable when accidentally offended ; but 
still she was of a retired and reserved habit, and shunned to mix 
in ordinary sports, even when the rare occurrence of a fair or 
wake gave her an opportunity of mingling with companions of 
her own age. If at such scenes she was seen for an instant, she 
appeared to behold them with the composed indifference of one 
to whom their gaiety was a matter of no interest, and who 
seemed only desirous to glide away from the scene as soon as 
she possibly could. 

Something also had transpired concerning her being born on 
All-hallow Eve, and the powers with which that cu’cumstance 
was supposed to invest her over the invisible world. And from 
all these particulars combined, the young men and w'omen of the 
Halidome used to distinguish Mary among themselves by the 
name of the Spirit of Avenel, as if the fair but fragile foimi, the 
beautiful but rather colourless cheek, the dark blue eye, and the 
shady hair, had belonged rather to the immaterial than the sub- 
Btantial world. The genenvl tradition of the White Lady, who 


142 


THE MONASTERY. 


was supposed to wait on the fortunes of the family of Avenel, gave 
a sort of zest to this piece of rural wit. It gave great offence, 
however, to the two sons of Simon Glendlnning ; and when the 
expression was in their presence applied to the young lady, 
Edward was wont to check the petulance of those who used it by 
strength of argument, and Halbert by strength of arm. In such 
cases Halbert had this advantage, that although he could I’ender 
no aid to his brother’s argument, yet when circumstances required 
it, he was sure to have that of Edward, who never indeed himself 
commenced a fray, but, on the other hand, did not testify any 
reluctance to enter into combat in Halbert’s behalf or in his 
rescue. 

But the zealous attachment of the two youths, being themselves, 
from the retired situation in which they dwelt, comparative 
strangers in the Halidome, did not serve in any degree to alter the 
feelings of the inhabitants towards the young lady, who seemed 
to have dropped amongst them from another sphere of life. Still, 
however, she was regarded with respect, if not with fondness; and 
tlie attention of the Sub-Prior to the family, not to mention the 
formidable name of Julian Avenel, which every new incident of 
those tumultuous times tended to render more famous, attached 
to his niece a certain importance. Thus some aspired to her 
acquaintance out of pride, while the more timid of the feuars 
were anxious to inculcate upon their children, the necessity of 
being respectful to the noble orphan. So that Mary Avenel, little 
loved because little known, was regarded with a mysterious awe, 
partly derived from fear of her uncle’s moss-troopers, and partly 
from her own retired and distant habits, enhanced by the super- 
stitious opinions of the time and country. 

It was not without some portion of this awe, that Mysie felt 
herself left alone in company with a young person so distant in 
rank, and so different in bearing, from herself ; for her worthy 
father had taken the first opportunity to step out unobserved, in 
order to mark how the barn-yard was filled, and what prospect 
it afforded of grist to the mill. In youth, liowever, there is a 
sort of free-masonry, which, without much conversation, teaches 
young pei’sons to estimate each other’s character, and places them 
at ease on the shortest acquaintance. It is only when taught 
deceit by the commerce of the w'orld, that we learn to shroud 
our character from observation, and to disguise our real senti- 
ments from those with whom we are placed in communion. 

Accordingly, the two young women wei*e soon engaged in such 
objects of intei’est as best became their age. They visited Mary 
Avenel’s pigeons, which she nursed with the tenderness of a 
mother ; they turned over her slender stores of finery, which yet 
contained some articles that excited the respect of her companion, 
though Mysie was too good-humoured to nourish en^’y. A golden 
rosary, and some female ornaments marking superior rank, had 
been rescued in the moment of their utmost adversity, more by 


THE MONASTERY. 


143 


Tibb Tacket’s presence of mind, than by the care of their owner, 
who was at that sad period too much sunk in grief to pay any 
attention to such circumstances. They struck Mysie with a deep 
impression of veneration ; for, excepting what the Lord Abbot 
and the convent might possess, she did not believe there was so 
much real gold in the Avorld as was exhibited in tliese few 
trinkets, and !Mary, however sage and serious, was not above 
being pleased with the admiration of her rustic companion. 

Nothing, indeed, could exhibit a stronger contrast than the 
appearance of the two girls ; — the good-humoured laughter-loving 
countenance of the Maid of the Mill, who stood gazing with unre- 
pressed astonishment on whatever was in her inexperienced eye 
rare and costly, and with an humble, and at the same time cheerful 
acquiescence in her inferioi’ity, asking all the little queries about 
the use and value of the ornaments, while Mary Avenel, with her 
quiet composed dignity and placidity of manner, produced them 
one after another for the amusement of her companion. 

As they became gradually more familiar, Mysie of the Mill was 
just venturing to ask, why Mary Avenel never appeared at the 
May-pole, and to express her wonder when the young lady said 
she disliked dancing, when a trampling of horses at the gate of 
the tower interrupted their conversation. 

Mysie flew to the shot window in the full ardour of uni'^ 
strained female curiosity. ‘‘Saint Mary! sweet lady! here come 
two well-mounted gallants; will you step this way to look at 
them V’ 

“ No,” said Mary Avenel, “you shall tell me who they are.” 

“Well, if you like it better,” said Mysie — “but how shall I 
know them? — Stay, I do know one of them, and so do you, lady; 
he is a blithe man, somewhat light of hand they say, but the 
gallants of these days think no great harm of that. He is your 
uncle’s henchman, that they call Christie of the Clinthill ; and he 
has not his old green jerkin and the rusty black-jack over it, but a 
scarlet cloak, laid down with silver lace three inches broad, and a 
breast-plate you might see to dress your hair in, as well as in that 
keeking-glass in the ivory frame that you shewed me even now. 
Come, dear lady, come to the shot-window and see him.” 

“ If it be the man you mean, Mysie,” replied the orphan of 
Avenel, “ I shall see him soon enough, considering either the 
pleasui’e or comfort the sight will give me.” 

“ Nay, but if you will not come to see gay Giristie,” I’cplied the 
Maid of the Mill, her face flushed with eager curiosity, “ come 
and tell me who the gallant is that is with him, the handsomest, 
the very lovesomest young man I ever saw witli sight.” 

“It is my foster-brother, Halbert Glendinning,” said Mary, 
with apparent indiflerence ; for she had been accustomed to call 
the sons of Elspeth lier foster-brethren, and to live with them as 
if they had been brothers in earnest. 

“ Nay, by Our Lady, that it is not,” said IVIysie ; “ I know tlie 


THE MONASTERA'. 


144 

favour of both the Glendinnings well, and I think tliis rider be 
not of our country. He has a crimson velvet bonnet, and long 
brown hair falling down under it, and a beard on his upper lip, 
and his chin clean and close shaved, save a small patch on the point 
of the chin, and a sky-blue jerkin, slashed and lined with white 
satin, and trunk-hose to suit, and no weapon but a rapier and 
dagger — Well, if I was a man, I would never wear weapon but 
tlie rapier ! it is so slender and becoming, instead of having a 
cart-load of iron at my back, like my father’s broad-sword with 
its great rusty basket-hilt. Do you not delight in the rapier and 
poniard, lady ?” 

“ The best sword,” answered Mary, “ if I must needs answer 
a question of the sort, is that which is drawn in the best cause, 
and which is best used when it is out of the scabbard.” 

“ But can you not guess who this stranger should be ?” said 
Mysie. 

“ Indeed, I cannot even attempt it ; but to judge by his com- 
panion, it is no matter how little he is known,” replied Mary. 

My benison on his bonny face,” said Mysie, “ if he is not going 
to alight here ! Now, I am as much pleased as if my father had 
given me the silver earrings he has promised me so often ; — nay, 
you had as well come to the window, for you must see him by and by 
whether you will or not.” 

I do not know how much sooner Mary Avenel might have sought 
the point of observation, if she had not been scared from it by the 
unrestrained curiosity expressed by her buxom friend ; but at 
length the same feeling prevailed over her sense of dignity, and 
satisfied with having displayed all the indifference that was 
)iecessary in point of decorum, she no longer thought herself 
bound to restrain her curiosity. 

From the out-shot or projecting window she could perceive, 
that Christie of the Clinthill was attended on the present occasion 
by a very gay and gallant cavalier, who from the nobleness of his 
countenance and manner, his rich and handsome dress, and the 
showy appearance of his horse and furniture, must, she agreed 
with her new friend, be a person of some consequence. 

Christie also seemed conscious of something, which made him 
call out with more than his usual insolence of manner, “ What, 
ho ! so ho ! the house ! Churl peasants, will no one answer when 
I call 1 — Ho ! Martin, — Tibb, — Dame Glendinning ! — a mur- 
rain on you, must we stand keeping our horses in the cold here, 
and they steaming with heat, when we have ridden so sharply ?” 

At length he was obeyed, and old Martin made his appearance. 
“ Ha !” said Christie, “ art thou there, old Truepenny ? here, 
stable me these steeds, and see them well bedded, and stretch 
thine old limbs by rubbing them down ; and see thou quit not 
the stable till there is not a turned hair on either of them.” 

Martin took the horses to the stable as commanded, but sup- 
pressed not his indignation a moment after he could vent it with 


THE monastery 


145 


j?afety. Would not any one think,” he said to Jasper, an old 
ploughman, who, in coming to his assistance, had heard Christie's 
imperious injunctions, “ that this loon, this Christie of the Clinthill, 
was laird or lord at least of him ? No such tiling, man ! I remember 
him a little dirty turnspit-boy in the house of Avenel, that every 
body in a frosty morning like this warmed his fiugers by kicking 
or cuffing ! and now he is a gentleman, and swears, d — n him and 
renounce him, as if the gentlemen could not so much as keep their 
own wickedness to themselves, without the like of him going to 
hell in their very company, and by the same road. I have as 
much a mind as ever I had to my dinner, to go back and tell him 
to sort his horse himself, since he is as able as I am.” 

“ Hout tout, man !” answered Jaspei*, “ keep a calm sough ; 
better to fleech a fool than fight with him.” 

Martin acknowledged the truth of the proverb, and, much 
comforted therewith, betook himself to cleaning the stranger’s 
horse with great assiduity, remarking, it was a pleasure to handle 
a handsome nag, and turned over the other to the charge of 
Jasper. Nor was it until Christie’s commands were literally 
complied with, that he deemed it proper, after fitting ablutions, to 
join the party in the^spence ; not for the purpose of waiting upon 
them, as a mere modern reader might possibly expect, but that he 
might have his share of dinner in their company. 

In the meanwhile Christie had presented his companion to 
Dame Glendinning as Sir Piercie Shafton, a friend of his and of his 
master, come to spend three or four days with little din in the 
tower. The good dame could not conceive how she was entitled to 
such an honour, and would fain have pleaded her want of every sort 
of convenience to entertain a guest of that quality. But, indeed, 
the visiter, when he cast his eyes round the bare walls, eyed the 
huge black chimney, scrutinized the meagre and broken furniture 
of the apartment, and beheld the embarrassment of the mistress 
of the family, intimated great reluctance to intrude upon Dame 
Glendinning a visit, which could scarce, from all appearances, 
prove otherwise than an inconvenience to hei’, and a penance to 
liimself. 

But the reluctant hostess and her guest had to do with an 
inexorable man, wdio silenced all expostulation with, “ such was 
his master’s pleasure. And, moreover,” he continued, “though 
the Baron of Avenel’s will must, and ought to prove law to all 
within ten miles around him, yet here, dame,” he said, “is a 
letter from your petticoated baron, the lord-priest yonder, who 
enjoins you, as you regard his pleasure, that you afford to this 
good knight -such decent accommodation as is in your power. 
Buffering him to live as privately as he shall desire. — And for 
you. Sir Piercie Shafton,” continued Christie, “you wall judge for 
yourself, whether secrecy and safety is not more your gbject even 
now, than soft beds and high cheer. And do not judge of the 
dame’s goods by the semblance of her cottage ; for you will see 
X. K 


THE MONASTERY. 


146 

by the dinner she is about to spread for us, that tlie vassal of tl'.e 
kirk is seldom found with her basket bai’c.” To Mary Avene! 
Christie presented the stranger, after the best fashion he could, 
as to the niece of his master the bai’on. 

While he thus labom’ed to reconcile Sir Piercie Shafton to his 
fate, the widow, having consulted her son Edward on the real 
import of the Lord Abbot’s injunction,, and having found that 
Christie had given a true exposition, saw nothing else left for her 
but to make that fate as easy as she could to the stranger. He 
himself also seemed reconciled to his lot by some feeling probably 
of strong necessity, and accepted with a good grace the hospitalit\ 
which the dame offered with a very indifferent one. 

In fact, the dinner, which soon smoked before the assembled 
guests, was of that substantial kind which warrants plenty and 
comfort. Dame Glendinning had cooked it after her best manner; 
and, delighted with the handsome appearance which her good 
cheer made when placed on the table, forgot both her plans and 
the vexations which interrupted them, in the hospitable duty of 
pressing her assembled visiters to eat and drink, watching every 
trencher as it waxed empty, and loading it with fresh supplies ere 
the guest could utter a negative. 

In the meanwhile, the company attentively regarded each 
other’s motions, and seemed endeavouring to form a judgment of 
each other’s character. Sir Piercie Shafton condescended to 
speak to no one but to Mary Avenel, and on her he conferred 
exactly the same familiar and compassionate, though somewhat 
scornful sort of attention, which a pretty fellow of these days will 
sometimes condescend to bestow on a country miss, when there is 
no prettier or more fashionable woman present. The manner 
indeed was different, for the etiquette of those times did not 
j)ermit Sir Piercie Shafton to pick his teeth, or to yawn, or to 
gabble like the beggar whose tongue (as he says) was cut out by 
the Turlcs, or to affect deafness or blindness, or any other infirmity 
of the organs. But tliough the embroidery of his conversation 
was different, the groundwork was the same, and the high-flown 
and ornate compliments with wliich the gallant knight of the 
sixteenth century interlarded his conversation, were as much the 
offspring of egotism and self-conceit, as the jargon of the coxcombs 
of our own days. 

The English Icnight was, however, sometliing daunted at find- 
ing that Mary Avenel listened with an air of indifference, and 
answered with wonderful brevity, to all the fine tilings which 
ought, as he conceived, to have dazzled her with their brilliancy, 
and puzzled her by their obscurity. But if he was disappointed 
in making the desired, or rather the expected impression, upon her 
whom he addressed. Sir Piercie Shafton’s discourse was marvel 
lous in the ears of Mysie the Miller’s daughter, and not the less 
so that she did not comprehend the meaning of a single word 
which he uttered. Indeed, the gallant knight’s language was far 


THE MONASTERY. 147 

too courtly to be understood by persons of much greater acute- 
ness than Mysie’s. 

It was about this period, that the only rare poet of his time, 
the witty, comical, facetiously-quick, and quickly-facetious, John 
liylly — he that sate at Apollo’s table, and to whom Phoebus gave 
a wreath of his own bays without snatcliing”* — he, in short, who 
wrote that singularly coxcoraical work, called Euphues and his 
England, was in the very zenitli of his absurdity and reputation. 
The quaint, forced, and unnatural style which he introduced by his 

Anatomy of Wit,” had a fashion as rapid as it was momentary 
— all the court ladies were his scholars, and to parler Euphdsme, 
was as necessary a qualification to a courtly gallant, as those of 
understanding how to use his rapier, or to dance a measure. 

It was no wonder that the Maid of the Mill, was soon as effec- 
tually blinded by the intricacies of this erudite and courtly style 
of conversation, as she had ever been by the dust of her father’s 
own meal-sacks. But there she sate with her mouth and eyes as 
open as the mill-door and the two windows, shewing teeth as white 
as her father’s bolted flour, and endeavouring to secure a word 
or two for her owm future use out of the pearls of rhetoric which 
Sir Piercie Shafton scattered around him with such bounteous 
profusion. 

For the male part of the company, Edward felt ashamed of 
his own manner and slowness of speech, when he observed the 
handsome young courtier, with an ease and volubility of wliich 
he had no conception, run over all the commonplace topics of 
high-flown gallantry. It is true, the good sense and natural taste 
of young Gleudinning soon informed him that the gallant cava- 
lier was spealdng nonsense. But, alas ! where is the man of 
modest merit, and real talent, who has not suffered from being 
outshone in conversation, and outstripped in the race of life, by 
men of less reserve, and of qualities more showy, though less 
substantial ? and well constituted must the mind be, that can 
yield up the prize without envy to competitors more worthy than 
himself. 

Edward Glendinning had no such philosophy. While he de- 
spised the jargon of the gay cavalier, he envied tlie facility with 
which he could run on, as well as the courtly tone and expression, 
and the perfect ease and elegance with which he offered all the 
little acts of politeness to which the duties of the table gave 
opportunity. And if I am to speak truth, I must own that he 
envied those qualities the more as they were all exercised in Mary 
Avenel’s service, and, although only so far accepted as they could 
not be refused, intimated a wish on the stranger’s part to place 
himself in her good graces, as the only person in the room to whom 

• Such, and yet more extravagant, are the compliments paid to this author by 
his editor Blount. Notwithstanding all exaggeration, Lylly was really a man of 
wit and imagination, though both were deformed by the most unnatural affec- 
tation that ever disgraced a printed page. 


US 


THE MONASTERY. 


ho tliought it worth while to recommend himself. His title, rank, 
and very handsome figure, together with some sparks of wit and 
spirit which flashed across the cloud of nonsense which he 
uttered, rendered him, as the words of the old song say, “ a lad 
for a lady's viewing so that poor Edward, with all his real 
worth and acquired knowledge, in his home-spun doublet, blue 
cap, and deerskin trowsers, looked like a clown beside the cour- 
tier, and, feeling the full inferiority, nourished no good-will to 
him by whom he was eclipsed. 

Christie, on the other hand, so soon as he had satisfied to the 
full a commodious appetite, by means of which persons of his pro- 
fession could, like the wolf and eagle, gorge themselves with as 
much food at one meal as might serve them for several days, 
began also to feel himself more in the background than he liked 
to be. This worthy had, amongst his other good qualities, an 
excellent opinion of himself ; and, being of a bold and forward 
disposition, had no mind to be thrown into the shade by any one. 
With an impudent familiarity which such persons mistake for 
graceful ease, he broke in upon the knight’s finest speeches with 
as little remorse as he would have driven the point of his lance 
through a laced doublet. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, a man of rank and high birth, by no means 
encouraged or endured this familiarity, and requited the intruder 
either with total neglect, or such laconic replies, as intimated a 
sovereign contempt for the rude spearman, who affected to con- 
verse with him upon terms of equality. 

The Miller held his peace; for, as his usual conversation 
turned chiefly on his clapper and toll-dish, he had no mind to 
Imag of his wealth in presence of Christie of the Clinthill, or to 
intrude his discourse on the English cavalier. 

A little specimen of the conversation may not be out of place, 
were it but to shew young ladhjs what fine things they have lost 
by living when Euphuism is out of fashion. 

Credit me, fairest lady,” said the knight, “ that such is the 
cunning of our English courtiers of the hodiernal strain, that, as 
they have infinitely refined upon the plain and rusticial discourse 
of our fathers, which, as I may say, more beseemed the mouths 
of country roisterers in a May-game than that of courtly gallants 
in a galliard, so I hold it ineffably and unutterably impossible, 
that those who may succeed us in that garden of wit and courtesy 
shall alter or amend it. Venus delighted but in the language of 
Mercury, Bucephalus will stoop to no one but Alexander, none 
can sound Apollo’s pipe but Orpheus.” 

“Valiant sir,” said Mary, who could scarce help laughing, 
“ we have but to rejoice in the chance which hath honoured this 
solitude with a glimpse of the sun of courtesy, though it rather 
blinds than enlightens us.” 

“Pretty and quaint, fairest lady,” answered the Euphuist. 
“Ah, that 1 had with me my Anatomy of Wit — that all-to-))o 


THE MOXASTEHY. 


149 

luiparalleicd volume — that quintessence of human wit — Uiat 
treasury of quaint invention — that exqtrisitely-pleasant-to-read, 
and inevitably-necessary-to-be-remembered manual, of all that 
is worthy to be known — which indoctrines the rude in civility, 
the dull ill intellectuality, the heavy in jocosity, the blunt in 
gentility, the vulgar in nobility, and all of them in that unut- 
terable perfection of human utterance, that eloquence which 
no other eloquence is sufficient to praise, that art which, when 
we call it by its own name of Euphuism, we bestow' on it its 
richest panegyi’ic.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” said Christie of the Clintliill, “ if your 
worship had told me that you had left such stores of wealth as 
you talk of at Prudhoe Castle, Long Dickie and I would have had 
them off with us if man and horse could have carried them ; but 
you told us of no treasure I wot of, save the silver tongs for 
turning up your mustachoes.” 

The knight treated this intiaider’s mistake — for certainly 
Christie had no idea that all these epithets which sounded so rich 
and splendid, were lavished upon a small quarto volume — with 
a stare, and then turning again to Mary Avenel, the only person 
w'hom lie thought worthy to address, he proceeded in his strain 
of high-flown oratory, “ Even thus,” said he, “ do hogs contemn 
the splendour of Oriental pearls ; even thus are the delicacies of 
a choice repast in vain ofered to the long-eared grazer of the 
common, who turneth from them to devour a thistle. Surely as 
idle is it to pour forth the treasures of oratory before the eyes oi 
the ignorant, and to spread the dainties of the intellectual banquet 
before those who are, morally and metaphysically speaking, no 
better than asses.” 

“ Sir Knight, since that is your quality,” said Edw'ard, “ we 
cannot strive wdth you in loftiness of language ; but I pray you 
in fair courtesy, while you honour my father’s house Avith your 
presence, to spare us such vile compai-isons.” 

“ Peace, good villagio,” said the knight, gracefully waving his 
hand, “ I prithee peace, kind rustic ; and you, my guide, Avhom 
I may scarce call honest, let me prevail upon you to imitate the 
laudable taciturnity of that honest yeoman, who sits as mute as a 
mill-post, and of that comely damsel, who seems as with her ears 
she drank in what she did not altogether comprehend, even as a 
palfrey listening to a lute, whereof, howsoever, he knoweth not 
the gamut.” 

“ Marvellous fine words,” at length said dame Glendining, who 
began to be tired of sitting so long silent, “marvellous fine words, 
ueighbour Happer, are they not ?” 

“Brave words — very brave w'ords — very exceedmg pyet 
words,” answered the Miller ; “ nevertheless, to speak my mind, 
a lippy of bran were worth a bushel o’ them.” 

“ I think so too, under his worship’s favour,” answei’ed 
Christie of the Clinthilh “ 1 well remember that at the race of 


150 


THE MOxVASTERY. 


Morham, as we call it, near Be^^vick, I took a young Southern 
fellow out of saddle with my lance, and cast him, it might be, a 
gad’s length from his nag ; and so, as he had some gold on his 
laced doublet, I deemed he might ha’ the like on it in his pocket 
too, though that is a rule that does not aye hold good — So I was 
speaking to him of ransom, and out he comes with a handful of 
such terras as his honour there hath gleaned up, and craved me 
for mercy, as I was a true son of Mars, and such like.” 

“ And obtained no mercy at thy hand, I dare be sworn,” said 
the knight, who deigned not to speak Euphuism excepting to the 
fair sex. 

“ By my troggs,” replied Christie, I would have thrust ray 
lance down his throat, but just then they flung open that accursed 
postern gate, and forth pricked old Hunsdon, and Henry Carey, 
and as many fellows at their heels as turned the chase northward 
again. So I e’en pricked Bayard with the spur, and went off 
with the rest ; for a man should ride when he may not wrestle, 
as they say in Tynedale.” 

“ Trust me,” said the knight, again turning to Mary Avenel, 
“ if I do not pity you, lady, who, being of noble blood, are thus in 
a manner compelled to abide in the cottage of the ignorant, like 
the precious stone in the head of the toad, or like a precious 
garland on the brow of an ass. — But soft, what gallant have we 
here, whose garb savoureth more of the rustic than doth his 
demeanour, and whose looks seem more lofty than his habit? 
even as ” 

“ I pray you. Sir Knight,” said Mary, " to spare your courtly 
similitudes for refined ears, and give me leave to name unto you 
my foster-brother. Halbert Glendinning.” 

"The son of the good dame of the cottage, as I opine,” 
answered the English loiight ; “ for by some such name did my 
guide discriminate the mistress of this mansion, which you, 
madam, enrich with your presence. — And yet, touching this 
Juvenal, he hath that about him which belongeth to higher birth, 
for all are not black who dig coals ” 

" Nor all white who are millers,” said honest Happer, glad to 
get in a word, as they say, edgeways. 

Halbert, who had sustained the glance of the Englishman with 
some impatience, and knew not what to make of his manner and 
language, replied with some asperity, “ Sir Knight, we have in 
this land of Scotland an ancient saying, ‘ Scorn not the bush that 
bields you’ — you are a guest of ray father’s house to shelter you 
from danger, if I am rightly informed by the domestics. Scoff 
not its homeliness, nor that of its inmates — ye might long have 
abidden at the court of England, ere we had sought your favour, 
or cumbered you with our society. Since your fate has sent you 
hither amongst us, be contented with such fare and such converse 
as we can afford you, and scorn us not for our kindness ; for the 
Scots wear short patience and long daggers.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


151 

All eyes were turned on Halbert while he was thus speaking, 
a nd there was a general feeling that his countenance had an ex- 
pression of intelligence, and his person an air of dignity, which 
they had never before observed. Whether it were that the 
wonderful Being with whom he had so lately held communication, 
had bestowed on him a grace and dignity of look and bearing 
which he had not before, or whether the being conversant in high 
matters, and called to a destiny beyond that of other men, had a 
natural ejffect in giving becoming confidence to his language and 
manner, we pretend not to determine. But it was evident to all, 
that, from this day, young Halbert was an altered man ; that he 
acted with the steadiness, promptitude, and determination, which 
belonged to riper years, and bore himself with a manner which 
appertained to higher rank. 

The knight took the rebuke with good humour. “ By mine 
honoui’,” he said, “ thou hast reason on thy side, good juvenal 
— nevertheless, I spoke not as in ridicule of the roof which 
relieves me, but rather in your own praise, to whom, if this roof 
be native, thou mayst nevertheless rise from its lowliness ; even 
as the lark, which maketh its humble nest in the furrow, ascen- 
deth towards the sun, as well as the eagle wliich buildeth her eyry 
in the cliff.” 

This high-flown discourse was interrupted by Dame Glendinning, 
who, with all the busy anxiety of a mother, was loading her son’s 
trencher with food, and dinning in his ear her reproaches on 
account of his prolonged absence. “ And see,” she said, “ tliat 
you do not one day get such a sight while you are walking about 
among the haunts of them that are not of our flesh and bone, as 
befell Mungo Murray when he slept on the greensward i*ing of 
the Auld Kirkhill at sunset, and wakened at daybreak in the wild 
hills of Breadalbane. And see that, when you are looking for 
deer, the red stag does not gall you as he did Diccon Thorburn, 
who never overcast the wound that he took from a buck’s horn. 
And see, when you go swaggering about with a long broadsword 
by your side, whilk it becomes no peaceful man to do, that you 
dinna meet witli them that have broadsword and lance both — 
there are enow of rank riders in this land, that neither fear God 
nor regard man.” 

Here her eye, “ in a fine frenzy rolling,” fell full upon that of 
Christie of the Clinthill, and at once her fears for having given 
offence interrupted the current of maternal rebuke, which, like 
rebuke matrimonial, may be often better meant than timed. 
There was something of sly and watchful significance in Christie’s 
eye, an eye gray, keen, fierce, yet wily, formed to express at once 
cunning and malice, w’hich made the dame instantly conjecture 
she had said too much, while she saw in imagination her twelve 
goodly cows go lowing down the glen in a moonlight night, with 
half a score of Border spearmen at their heels. 

Her voice, therefore, sunk from the elevated tone of maternal 


THE MOXASTEPtT. 


152 

authority into a whimpering apologetic sort of sti’ain, and she 
proceeded to say, ‘‘ It is no that I have only ill thoughts of tlie 
Border riders, for Tibb Tacket there has often lieard me say that 
I thought spear and bridle as natural to a Borderman as a pen to 
a priest, or a feather-fan to a lady ; and — have you not heard mo 
say it, Tibb ?” 

Tibb shewed something less than her expected alacrity in 
attesting her mistress’s deep respect for the freebooters of the 
southland hills ; but, thus conjured, did at length reply, “Ilout 
ay, mistress, I ’se warrant I have heard you say something like 
that.” 

“ Mother !” said Halbert, in a firm and commanding tone of 
voice, “ what or whom is it that you fear under my father’s roof? 

. — I well hope that it harbours not a guest in whose presence you 
are afraid to say your pleasure to me or my brother ? I am sorry 
I have been detained so late, being ignorant of the fair company 
which I should encounter on my return. — I pray you let this 
excuse suffice : and what satisfies you will, I trust, be nothing less 
than acceptable to your guests.” 

An answer calculated so justly betwixt the submission due to 
his parent, and the natural feeling of dignity in one who was by 
birth master of the mansion, excited universal satisfaction. And 
as Elspeth herself confessed to Tibb on the same evening, “ She 
did not think it liad been in the callant. Till that night, he took 
pets and passions if he was spoke to, and lap through the house 
like a four-year-auld at the least word of advice that Avas minted 
at him, but now he spoke as grave and as douce as the Lord Abbot 
himself. She kendna,” she said, “ what might be the upshot of 
it, but it was like he was a Avonderfu’ callant even noAv.” 

The party then separated, the young men retiring to their 
apartments, the elder to their household cares. While Christie 
went to see his horse properly accommodated, EdAvard betook 
himself to his book, and Halbert, Avho Avas as ingenious in employ- 
ing his hands as he had hitherto appeared imperfect in mental 
exertion, applied himself to constructing a place of concealment 
in the floor of his apartment by raising a plank, beneath Avhich he 
resolved to deposit that copy of the Holy Scriptures Avhich had 
been so strangely regained from the possession of men and 
spirits. 

In the meauAvliile, Sir Piercie Shafton sate still as a stone, in 
the chair in Avhich he had deposited himself, his hands folded on 
his breast, his legs stretched straight out before him and resting 
upon the heels, his eyes cast up to the ceiling as if he had meant 
to count every mesh of every cobAveb Avith Avhich the arched roof 
Avas canopied, wearing at the same time a face of as solemn and 
imperturbable gravity, as if his existence had depended on the 
accuracy of his calculation. 

He could scarce be roused from his listless state of contempla- 
tive absorption so as to take some supper, a meal at which the 


THE MOXAS’IKJLY. 


153 


younger females appeared not. Sir Piercie stared around twice 
or tlirice as if he missed something ; but he asked not for them, 
and only evinced his sense of a proper audience being wanting, 
by his abstraction and absence of mind, seldom speaking until 
he was twice addressed, and then replying, without trope or 
figure, in that plain English, which nobody could speak better 
when he had a mind. 

Christie, finding himself in undisturbed possession of the con- 
versation, indulged all who chose to listen with details of his own 
wild and inglorious warfare, while Dame Elspeth’s curch bristled 
with horror, and Tibb Packet, rejoiced to find herself once more 
in the company of a jack -man, listened to his tales, like Desde- 
mona to Othello’s, with undisguised delight. Meantime the two 
young Glendinnings were each wrapped up in his own reflections, 
and only interrupted in them by the signal to move bedward. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Jle strikes no coin, ’tis true, but coins new phrases, 

And vends them fortli as knaves vend gilded counters, 

AVhich wise men scorn, and fools accept in payment. 

Old Play. 

In the morning Christie of the Clinthill was no where to be 
seen. As this worthy personage did seldom pique himself on 
sounding a trumpet before his movements, no one was surprised 
at his moonlight departure, though some alarm was excited lest 
he had not made it empty-handed. So, in the language of the 
national ballad. 


Some ran to cupboard, and some to kist. 

Hut nought was away that could be mist. 

All was in order, the key of the stable left above the door, and 
that of the iron grate in the inside of the lock. In short, the 
retreat had been made with scrupulous attention to the security 
of the garrison, and so far Christie left them nothing to com- 
plain of. 

The safety of the premises was ascertained by Halbert, who, 
instead of catching up a gun or cross-bow, and sallying out for 
the day as had been his frequent custom, now, with a gravity 
beyond his years, took a survey of all around the tower, and then 
returned to the spence, or public apartment, in which, at the 
early hour of seven, the morning-meal was prepared. 

There ho found the Euphuist in the same elegant posture of 
abstruse calculation which he had exhibited on the preceding 
evening, his arms folded in the same angle, his eyes turned up to 
the same cobwebs, and his heels resting on the ground as before. 
Tired of this affectation of indolent importance, and not much 
flattered with his guest’s persevering in it to the last. Halbert 


THE MONASTERY. 


154 

resolved at once to break the ice, being determined to know vhat 
circumstance had brought to the Tower of Glendi lining a guest 
at once so supercilious and so silent. 

" Sir Knight,” he said with some firmness, “ I have twice given 
you good morning, to which the absence of your mind hath, I 
presume, prevented you from yielding attention, or from maldng 
return. This exchange of courtesy is at your pleasure to give or 
withhold — But, as what I have farther to say concerns your com- 
fort and your motions in an especial manner, I will entreat you to 
give me some signs of attention, that I may be sure I am not 
wasting my words on a monumental image.” 

At this unexpected address. Sir Piercie Shafton opened his 
eyes, and afforded the speaker a broad stai*e ; but as Halbert 
returned the glance without either confusion or dismay, the knight 
thought proper to change his posture, draw in his legs, raise his 
eyes, fix them on young Glendinning, and assume the appearance 
of one who listens to what is said to him. Nay, to make his 
purpose more evident, he gave voice to his resolution in these 
words, “ Speak ! we do hear.” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “ it is the custom of this Hali- 
dome, or patrimony of St Mary’s, to trouble with inquiries no 
guests who receive our hospitality, providing they tarry in our 
house only for a single revolution of the sun. We know that both 
criminals and debtoi*s come hither for sanctuary, and w^e scorn 
to extort from the pilgrim, whom chance may make our guest, an 
avowal of the cause of his pilgrimage and penance. But when 
one so high above our rank as yourself. Sir Kniglit, and especially 
one to whom the possession of such pre-eminence is not indifferent, 
shews his determination to be our guest for a longer time, it is 
our usage to inquire of him whence he comes, and what is the 
cause of his journey?” 

The English knight gaped twice or thrice before he answered, 
and then replied in a bantering tone, “ Truly, good viilagio, your 
question hath in it somewliat of embarrassment, for you ask me of 
things concerning which I am not as yet altogether determined 
what answer I may find it convenient to make. Let it suffice 
thee, kind Juvenal, that thou hast the Lord Abbot’s authority for 
treating me to the best of that power of thine, which, indeed, may 
not always so well suffice for my accommodation as either of us 
would desire.” 

‘‘ I must have a more precise answer than this, Sir Knight,” 
said the young Glendinning. 

“ Friend,” said the knight, “ be not outrageous. It may suit 
your northern manners thus to press harshly upon the secrets of 
tliy betters ; but believe me, that even as the lute, struck by an 

unskilful hand, doth produce discords, so ” At this moment 

the door of the apartment opened, and Mary Avenel presented 
herself — But who can talk of discords,” said the knight, assum- 
ing his complimentary vein and humour « when the soul of bar- 


THE MONASTERY. 


155 

mony descends upon us in the presence of surpassing beauty ! For 
even as foxes, wolves, and other animals void of sense and reason, 
do fly from the presence of the resplendent sun of heaven when 
he arises in his glory, so do strife, wrath, and all ireful passions 
retreat, and, as it were, scud away, from the face which now 
beams upon us, with power to compose our angry passions, illu- 
minate our errors and difficulties, soothe our wounded minds, and 
lull to rest our disorderly apprehensions ; for as the heat and 
warmth of the eye of day is to the material and physical world, 
so is the eye which I now bow down before to that of the intel- 
lectual microcosm.” 

He concluded with a profound bow ; and Mary Avenel, gazing 
from one to the other, and plainly seeing that something was 
amiss, could only say, “For heaven’s sake, what is the meaning 
of this ?” 

Tlie newly-acquired tact and intelligence of her foster-brother 
was as yet insufficient to enable him to give an answer. He was 
quite uncertain how he ought to deal with a guest, who, preserving 
a singularly high tone of assumed superiority and importance, 
seemed nevertheless so little serious in what he said, that it was 
quite impossible to discern with accuracy whether he was in jest 
or earnest. 

Forming, however, the internal resolution to bring Sir Piercie 
Shafton to a reckoning at a more fit place and season, he resolved 
to prosecute the matter no farther at present ; and the entrance 
of his mother with the damsel of the Mill, and the return of the 
honest Miller from the staek-yard, where he had been numbering 
and calculating the probable amount of the season’s grist, rendered 
farther discussion impossible for the moment. 

In the course of the calculation it could not but strike the 
man of meal and grindstones, that, after the church’s dues were 
paid, and after all which he himself could by any means deduct 
from the crop, still the residue which must revert to Dame Glen- 
dinning could not be less than considerable. T wot not if this led 
the honest Miller to nourish any plans similar to those adopted 
by Elspeth ; but it is certain that he accepted with grateful alacrity 
an invitation which the dame gave to his daughter, to remain a 
week or two as her guest at Glendearg. 

The principal persons being thus in high good humour with 
each other, all business gave place to the hilarity of the morning 
repast ; and so much did Sir Piercie appear gratified by the 
attention which was paid to every word that he uttered by the 
nut-brown Mysie, that, notwithstanding his high birth and distin- 
guished quality, he bestowed on her some of the more ordinary 
and second-rate tropes of his elocution. 

Mary Avenel, when relieved from tlie awkwardness of feeling 
tJie full weight of his conversation addressed to herself, enjoyed 
it much more ; and the good knight, encouraged by those con- 
ciUating marks of approbation from the sex, for whose sake he 


THE MOXASTEKY. 


i5(; 


cultivated his oratorical talents, made speedy intimation of his 
purpose to be more communicative than he had shewn himself in 
his conversation with Halbert Glendinning, and gave them to 
understand, that it was in consequence of some pressing danger 
that he was at present their involuntary guest. 

The conclusion of the breakfast was a signal for the separation 
of the company. The Miller w^ent to prepare for his departure ; 
his daughter to arrange matters for her unexpected stay ; Edward 
was summoned to consultation by Martm concerning some agri- 
cultural matter, in which Halbert could not be brought to interest 
himself ; the dame left the room upon her household concerns, and 
Mary was in the act of following her, when she suddenly recol- 
lected, that if she did so, the strange knight and Halbert must be 
left alone together, at the risk of another quarrel. 

The maiden no sooner observed this circumstance, than she 
instantly returned from the door of the apartment, and, seating 
herself in a small stone window-seat, resolved to maintain that 
curb which she was sensible her presence imposed on Halbert 
Glendinning, of whose quick temper she had some apprehensions. 

The stranger marked her motions, and, either interpreting 
them as inviting his society, or obedient to those laws of gallantry 
which permitted him not to leave a lady in silence and solitude, 
he instantly placed himself near to her side, and opened the con- 
versation as follows : — 

Credit me, fair lady,” he said, addressing Mary Avenel, “ it 
much rejoice th me, being, as I am, a banished man from the 
delights of mine own country, that I shall find here, in this obscure 
and silvan cottage of the north, a fair form and a candid soul, with 
whom I may explain my mutual sentiments. And let me pray you 
in particular, lovely lady, that, according to the universal custom 
now predominant in our court, the garden of superior wdts, you 
will exchange with me some epithet whereby you may mark my 
devotion to your sei’vice. Be henceforward named, for example, 
my Protection, and let me be your Affability.” 

‘‘ Our northern and country manners. Sir Knight, do not per- 
mit us to exchange epithets with those to whom we are strangers,” 
replied Mary Avenel. 

“ Nay, but see now,” said the knight, how you are startled ! 
even as the unbroken steed, which swerves aside from the shaking 
of a hankerchief, though he must in time encounter the waving of 
a pennon. This courtly exchange of epithets of honour, is no more 
than the compliments which pass between valour and beauty, 
wherever they meet, and under whatever circumstances. Eliza- 
beth of England herself calls Philip Sydney her Courage, and he 
in return calls that princess his Inspiration. Wherefore, my fair 
Protection, for by such epithet it shall be mine to denominate 


“ Not without the young lady’s consent, sir !” interrupted 
Halbert j “ most truly do I hope your courtly and quaint breed- 


THE MONASTERY. 


157 

ill" will not so far prevail over the more ordinary rules of civil 
oehaviour.” 

“Fair tenant of an indifferent copyhold,” replied the knight, 
with the same coolness and civility of mien, but in a tone somewhat 
more lofty than ho used to the young lady, “ we do not in the 
southern parts, much intermingle discourse, save with those with 
whom we may stand on some footing of equality ; and I must, in 
all discretion, remind you, that the necessity which makes us 
inhabitants of the same cabin, doth not place us otherwise on a 
level with each other.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” replied young Glendinning, “ it is my thought 
that it does ; for plain men hold, that he who asks the shelter is 
indebted to him who gives it ; and so far, therefore, is our rank 
equalized while this roof covers us both.” 

“ Thou art altogether deceived,” answered Sir Piercie ; “ and 
that thou mayst fully adapt thyself to our relative condition, know 
that I account not myself thy guest, but that of thy mastei’, the 
Lord Abbot of St Mary’s, who, for reasons best known to himself 
and me, chooseth to administer his hospitality to me through the 
means of thee, his servant and vassal, who art, therefore, in good 
truth, as passive an instrument of my accommodation as this ill- 
made and rugged joint-stool on which I sit, or as the wooden 
trencher from which I eat my coarse commons. Wherefore,” he 
added, turning to Mary, “ fairest mistress, or rather, as I saiil 
before, most lovely Protection * ” 

Mary Avenel was about to reply to him, when the stern, fierce, 
and resentful expression of voice and countenance with which 
Halbert exclaimed, “ Not from the King of Scotland, did he live, 
would I brook such terms !” induced her to thi’ow herself between 
him and the stranger, exclaiming, “For God’s sake. Halbert, 
beware what you do !” 

“Fear not, fairest Protection,” replied Sir Piercie, with the 
utmost serenity, “ that I can be provoked by this rustical and 
mistaught Juvenal to do aught misbecoming your presence or 
mine own dignity ; for as soon shall the gunner’s linstock give fire 
unto the icicle, as the spark of passion inflame my blood, tempered 
as it is to serenity by tlie respect due to the presence of my 
gracious Protection.” 

“ You may well call her your protection. Sir Knight,” said 
Halbert ; “ by Saint Andrew, it is the only sensible word I have 
heard you speak ! But we may meet where her protection shall 
no longer afford you shelter.” 

“ Fairest Protection,” continued the courtier, not even honour- 
ing with a look, far less with a direct reply, the threat of tho 
incensed Halbert, “ doubt not that thy faithful Affability will be 
more commoved by the speech of this rudesby, than the bright 
and serene moon is perturbed by the baying of the cottage-cur^ 


• See Note F. EpHheU. 


158 


THE MONASTERY. 


proud of the height of his own dung-hill, which, in liiS conceit, 
lifteth him nearer unto the majestic luminary.” 

To what lengths so unsavoury a simile might have driven 
Halbert’s indignation, is left uncertain ; for at that moment 
Edward rushed into the apartment with the intelligence that two 
most important officers of the Convent, the Kitchener and Refec- 
tioner, were just arrived with a sumpter-mule, loaded with provi- 
sions, announcing. that the Lord Abbot, the Sub-Prior, and the 
Sacristan, were on their way thither. A circumstance so very 
extraordinary had never been recorded in the annals of Saint 
Mary’s, or in the traditions of Glendearg, though there w'as a 
faint legendary report that a certain Abbot had dined there in 
old days, after having been bewildered in a hunting expedition 
amongst tlie wilds which lie to the northward. But that the 
present Lord Abbot should have taken a voluntary journey to so 
wild and dreary a spot, the very Kamtschatka of the Halidome, 
was a thing never dreamt of ; and the news excited the greatest 
surprise in all the members of the family saving Halbert alone. 

This fiery youth was too full of the insult he had received to 
think of any thing as unconnected with it. “ I am glad of it,” he 
exclaimed ; “ I am glad the Abbot comes hither. I will know of 
him by what right this stranger is sent hither to domineer over 
us under our father’s roof, as if we were slaves and not freemen. 

I will tell the proud priest to his beard ” 

Alas ! alas ! my brother,” said Edward, “ think what these 
words may cost thee !” 

“ And what will, or what can they cost me,” said Halbert, “ that 
I should sacrifice my human feelings and my justifiable resent- 
ment to the fear of what the Abbot can do ?” 

“ Our mother — our mother !” exclaimed Edward ; “ think, if 
she is deprived of her home, expelled from her property, how can 
you amend what your rashness may ruin ?” 

“ It is too true, by Heaven !” said Halbert striking his forehead. 
Then, stamping his foot against the floor to express the full energy 
of the passion to which he dared no longer give vent, he turned 
round and left the apartment. 

Mary Avenel looked at the stranger knight, while she was 
endeavouring to frame a request tliat he would not report the 
intemperate violence of her foster-brother to the prejudice of his 
family, in the mind of the Abbot. But Sir Piercie, the very pink 
of courtesy, conjectured' her meaning from her embarrassment, 
and waited not to be entreated. 

“ Credit me, fairest Protection,” said he, “ your Affability is 
less than capable of seeing or hearing, far less of reciting or 
reiterating, aught of an unseemly nature wliich may have chanced 
while I enjoyed the Elysium of your presence. The winds of idle 
passion may indeed rudely agitate the bosom of the rude ; but the 
heart of the courtier is polished to resist them. As the frozen 
lake receives not the influence of the breeze, even so ■” 


THE MONASTERY. 


159 

The voice of Dame Glendinning, in shrill summons, here 
demanded Mary Avenel’s attendance, who instantly obeyed, not 
a little glad to escape from the compliments and similies of this 
court-like gallant. Nor was it apparently less a relief on his part; 
for no sooner was she past the threshold of the room, than he 
exchanged the look of formal and elaborate politeness which had 
accompanied each word he had uttered hitherto, for an expression 
of the utmost lassitude and ennui ; and after indulging in one or 
two portentous yawns, broke forth into a soliloquy. 

“ What the foul fiend sent this wench hither * As if it were 
not sufficient plague to be harbom’ed in a hovel tliat would hardly 
serve for a dog’s kennel in England, baited by a rude peasant-boy, 
and dependent on the faith of a mercenary ruffian, but I cannot 
even have time to muse over my own mishap, but must come 
aloft, frisk, fidget, and make speeches, to please this pale hectic 
phantom, because she has gentle blood in her veins ! By mine 
honour, setting prejudice aside, the mill-wench is the more 
attractive of the two — But patienza, Piercie Shafton ; thou must 
not lose thy well-earned claim to be accounted a devout servant 
of the fair sex, a witty-brained, prompt, and accomplished cour- 
tier. Rather thank heaven, Piercie Shafton, which hath sent 
thee a subject, wherein, without derogating from thy rank, (since 
the honoiu’s of the Avenel family are beyond dispute,) thou 
inayest find a whetstone for thy witty compliments, a strop 
whereon to sharpen thine acute ingine, a butt whereat to shoot 
the arrows of thy gallantry. For even as a Bilboa blade, the 
more it is rubbed, the brighter and the sharper will it prove, so 

But what need I waste my stock of similitudes in holding 

converse with myself ? — Yonder comes the monkish retinue, like 
some half score of crows winging their way slowly up the valley — 
I hope, a’gad, they have not forgotten my trunk-mails of apparel 
amid the ample provision they liave made for their own belly- 
timber — Mercy, a’gad, I were finely helped up if the vesture has 
miscarried among the thievish Borderers !” 

Stung by this reflection, he ran hastily down stairs, and caused 
his horse to be saddled, that he might, as soon as possible, ascer- 
tain this important point, by meeting the Lord Abbot and his 
retinue as they came up the glen. He had not ridden a mile 
before he met them advancing with the slowness and decorum 
which became persons of their dignity and profession. The 
knight failed not to greet the Lord Abbot with all the formal 
compliments with which men of rank at that period exchanged 
courtesies. He had the good fortune to find that his mails were 
numbered among the train of baggage which attended upon the 
party ; qnd, satisfied in that particular, he turned his horse’s 
head, and accompanied the Abbot to the Tower of Glendearg. 

Great, in the meanwhile, had been the turmoil of the good 
Dame Elspeth and her coadjutors, to prepare for the fitting recep- 
tion of the Father Lord Abbot and bis retinue. The monks had 


THE MONASTERY. 


IGO 

indeed taken care not to trust too much to the state of her pantry; 
but she was not the less anxious to malce such additions as might 
enable her to claim the thanks of her feudal lord and spiritual 
father. Meeting Halbert, as, with his blood on fire, he returned 
from his altercation with her guest, she commanded him instantly 
to go forth to the hill, and not to return without venison; remind- 
ing him that he was apt enough to go thither for his own pleasure, 
and must now do so for the credit of the house. 

The Miller, who was now hastening his journey homewards, 
promised to send up some salmon by his own servant. Dame 
Elspeth, who by this time thought she had guests enough, had 
begun to repent of her invitation to poor Mysie, and was just 
considering by what means, short of giving offence, she could 
send off the Maid of the Mill behind her father, and adjourn all 
her own aerial architecture till some future opportunity, when 
this unexpected generosity on the part of the sire rendered any 
present attempt to return his daughter on his hands too highly 
ungracious to be farther thought on. So the Miller departed 
alone on his homeward journey. 

Dame Elspeth’s sense of hospitality proved in this instance its 
own reward ; for Mysie had dwelt too near the Convent to be 
altogether ignorant of the noble art of cookery, which her father 
])atronized to the extent of consuming on festival days such 
dainties as his daughter could prepare in emulation of the luxuries 
of the Abbot’s kitchen. Laying aside, therefore, her holiday 
kirtle, and adopting a dress more suitable to the occasion, the 
good-humoured maiden bared her snowy arms above the elbows ; 
and, as Elspeth acknowledged, in the language of the time and 
country, took “ entire and aefauld part with her” in the labours of 
the day ; shewing unparalleled talent, and indefatigable industry, 
in the preparation of mortreux, hlanc-manger, and heaven knows 
what delicacies besides, which Dame Glendinning, unassisted by 
her skill, dared not even have dreamt of presenting. 

Leaving this able substitute in the kitchen, and regretting that 
Mary Avenel was so brought up, that she could intrust nothing 
to her care, unless it might be seeing the great chamber strewed 
with rushes, and ornamented with such flowers and branches as 
the season afforded. Dame Elspeth hastily donned her best attire, 
and with a beating heart presented herself at the door of her 
little tower, to make her obeisance to the Lord Abbot as he 
crossed her humble threshold. Edward stood by his mother, and 
felt the same palpitation, which his philosophy was at a loss to 
account for. He was yet to learn how long it is ere oim reason 
is enabled to triumph over the force of external circumstances, 
and how much our feelings are affected by novelty, and blunted 
by use and habit. 

On the present occasion, he witnessed with wonder and awe the 
approach of some half-score of ridei^, sober men upon sober 
palfreys, muffled in their long blade garments, and only relieved 


THE MONASTERY. 161 

by their white scapiilaries, shewing more like a funeral procession 
tlian aught else, and not quickening their pace beyond that which 
permitted easy conversation and easy digestion. The sobriety of 
the scene was indeed somewhat enlivened by the presence of Sir 
Piercie Shafton, who, to shew that his skill in the manege was not 
inferior to his other accomplishments, kept alternately pressing 
and checking his gay courser, forcing him to piaffe, to caracole, 
to passage, and to do all the other feats of the school, to the great 
annoyance of the Lord Abbot, the wonted sobriety of whose pal- 
frey became at length discomposed by the vivacity of its companion, 
while the dignitary kept crying out in bodily alarm, “ I do pray 
you, sir — Sir Knight — good now. Sir Piercie — Be quiet, Bene- 
dict, tliere is a good steed — soh, poor fellow !” and uttering all 
the other precatory and soothing exclamations by which a timid 
horseman usually bespeaks the favour of a frisky companion, or 
of his own unquiet nag, and concluding the bead-i’oll with a sincere 
Deo gratias so soon as he alighted in the court-yard of the Tower 
of Glendearg. 

The inhabitants unanimously knelt down to kiss the hand of 
the Lord Abbot, a ceremony which even the monks were often 
condemned to. Good Abbot Boniface was too much fluttered by 
the incidents of the latter part of his journey, to go through this 
cei’emony with much solemnity, or indeed with much patience. 
He kept wiping his brow with a snow-white handkerchief with 
one hand, while another was abandoned to the homage of his 
vassals ; and then signing the cross with his outstretched arm, 
and exclaiming, “ Bless ye — bless ye, my children !” he hastened 
intO) the house, and murmured not a little at the darkness and 
steepness of the rugged winding stair, whereby he at length scaled 
the spence destined for his entertainment, and, overcome with 
fatigue, threw himself, I do not say into an easy chair, but into 
tlie easiest the apartment afforded. 


CHAPTER XVt. 

A courtier extraordinary, who by diet 
Of meats and drinks, his temperate exercise. 

Choice music, frequent bath, his horary shifts 
Of shirts and waistconts, means to immortalize 
Mortality itself, and makes the essence 
Of his whole happiness the trim of court. 

Magnetic Lady. 

When the Lord Abbot had suddenly and superciliously vanished 
from the eyes of his expectant vassals, the Sub-Prior made 
amends for the negligence of his principal, by the kind and affec- 
tionate greeting which he gave to all the members of the family, 
but especially to Dame Elspeth, her foster-daughter, and her son 
Edward. “ Where,” he even condescended to inquire, “ is that 
VOL. X. L 


162 


THE MONASTERY. 


naughty' Nimrod, Halbert ? — He hath not yet, I trust, turned, 
like his great prototype, his hunting-spear against man !” 

0 no, an it please your reverence,” said Dame Glendinning, 

Halbert is up at the glen to get some venison, or surely he 
would not have been absent when such a day of honour dawned 
upon me and mine.” 

“ Oh, to get savoury meat, such as our soul loveth,” muttered 
the Sub-Prior ; “ it has been at times an acceptable gift. — I bid 
YOU good morrow, my good dame, as I must attend upon his 
lordship the Father Abbot.” 

“ And 0, reverend sir,” said the good widow, detaining him, 
“ if it might be your pleasure to take part with us if there is any 
thing wrong ; and if there is any thing wanted, to say that it is 
just coming, or to make some excuses your learning best knows 
how. Evei’y bit of vassail and silver work have we been spoiled 
of since Pinkie Cleuch, when I lost poor Simon Glendinning, that 
was the warst of a’.” 

“ Never mind — never fear,” said the Sub-Prior, gently extri- 
cating his garment from the anxious grasp of Dame Elspeth, 
“ the Refectioner has with him the Abbot’s plate and drinking 
cups ; and I pray you to believe that whatever is short in your 
entertainment will be deemed amply made up in your good-will.” 

So saying, he escaped from her and went into the spence, where 
such preparations as haste permitted were making for the noon 
collation of the Abbot and the English knight. Here he found 
the Lord Abbot, for whom a cusliion, composed of all the plaids 
in the house, had been unable to render Simon’s huge elbow-chair 
a soft or comfortable place of rest. 

“ Benedicite !” said Abbot Boniface, “ now marry fie upon 
these hard benches with all my heart — they are as uneasy as the 
scabella of our novices. Saint J ude be with us, Sir Knight, how 
have you contrived to pass over the night in this dungeon ? An 
your bed was no softer than your seat, you might as well have 
slept on the stone couch of Saint Pacomius. After trottino- a 
full ten miles, a nmn needs a softer seat than has fallen to my 
hard lot.” 

Witli sympathizing faces, the Sacristan and the Refectioner 
ran to raise the Lord Abbot, and to adjust his seat to his mind, 
which was at length accomplished in some sort, although he 
continued alternately to bewail his fatigue, and to exult in the 
conscious sense of having discharged an arduous duty. “ You 
errant cavaliers,” said he, addressing the knight, “may now 
perceive that otliers have their travail and their toik to undergo 
os well as your honoured faculty. And this I will say for 
myself and the soldiers of Saint Mary, among whom I may be 
termed captain, that it is not our wont to flinch from the heat of 
the service, or to withdraw from the good fight. No, by Saint 
Mai’y ! — no sooner did I learn that you were here, and dared 
toot for certain reasons come to the Monastery, where, with as good 


THE MONASTERY. 


163 


and with more convenience, we miglit have given you a 
bol ter reception, tliau, striking the table with my hammer, I called 
a brother — Timothy, said I, let them saddle Benedict — let them 
saddle my black palfrey, and bid the Sub-Prior and some half- 
score of attendants be in readiness to-morrow after matins — •w'e 
would ride to Glendearg. — Brother Timothy stared, thinldng, I 
imagine, tliat his ears had scarce done him justice — but 1 I’e- 
pcated my commands, and said. Let the Kitchener and Refectioner 
go before to aid the poor vassals to whom the place belongs in 
making a suitable collation. So that you will consider, good Sir 
Piercie, our mutual incommoditios, and forgive whatever you may 
find amiss.” 

" By my faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ tliere is nothing to 
forgive — If you spiritual warriors have to submit to the grievous 
in commodities which yom’ lordship narrates, it would ill become 
me, a sinful and secular man, to complain of a bed as hard as a 
board, of broth which relished as if made of burnt wool, of flesh, 
which, in its sable and singed shape, seemed to put me on a level 
with Richard Coeur-de-Lion, when he ate up the head of a Moor 
carbonadoed, and of other viands savouring rather of the rusti- 
city of this northern region.” 

“ By the good Saints, sir,” said the Abbot, somewhat touched 
in point of his character for hospitality, of which he was in truth 
a most faithful and zealous professor, “ it grieves me to the heart 
that you have found our vassals no better provided for your recep- 
tion — Yet I crave leave to observe, that if Sir Piercie Shaf ton’s 
affairs had permitted him to honour with his company our poor 
house of Saint Mary’s, he might have had less to complain of in 
respect of easements.” 

“ To give your lordship the reasons,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, 
why I could not at this present time approach your dwelling, 
or avail myself of its well known and undoubted hospitality, 
craves either some delay, or,” looking around him, “ a limited 
audience.” 

The Lord Abbot immediately issued liis mandate to the Refec- 
tioner ; “ Hie thee to the kitchen, Brother Hilarius, and there 
make inquiry of our brother the Kitchener, witliin what time he 
oi)ine8 that our collation may be prepared, since sin and sorrow 
it were, considering the hardships of this noble and gallant knight, 
no whit mentioning or weighing those we ourselves have endured, 
if we were now either to advance or retard the hour of refection 
beyond tlie time when the viands are fit to be set before us.” 

Brother Hilarius parted with an eager alertness to execute the 
will of his Superior, and returned with the assurance, that punc- 
tually at one afternoon would the collation be ready. 

“ Before tliat time,” said the accurate Refectioner, “the wafers, 
flamms, and pastry -meat, will scarce have had the just degree of 
fire which learned pottingers prescribe as fittest for the body ; 
and if it should be past one o’clock, were it but ten minutes, out: 


THE MONASTERY. 


164 

brother the Kitchener opines, that the haunch of venison would 
suffer in spite of the skill of the little turn-hrochc whom he lias 
recommended to your holiness by his praises.” 

“Howl” said the Abbot, “a haunch of venison! — from 
whence comes that dainty ? I remember not thou didst intimate 
its presence in thy hamper of vivers.” 

“ So please your holiness and lordship,” said the Refectioner, 
“ he is a son of the woman of the house who hath shot it and 
sent it in — killed but now ; yet, as the animal heat hath not left 
the body, the Kitchener undertakes it shall eat as tender as a 
young chicken — and this youth hath a special gift in shooting 
deer, and never misses the heart or the brain ; so that the blood 
s not driven through the flesh, as happens too often with us. 
It is a hart of gi’ease — your holiness has seldom seen such a 
haunch.” 

“ Silence, Brother Hilarius,” said the Abbot, wiping his mouth ; 
“ it is not beseeming our order to talk of food so earnestly, espe- 
cially as we must oft have our animal powers exhausted by fast- 
ing, and be accessible (as being ever mere mortals) to those 
signs of longing” (he again wiped his mouth) “which arise 
on the mention of victuals to an hungry man. — Minute down, 
however, the name of that youth — it is fitting merit should be 
rewarded, and he shall hereafter be nfratei’ ad siiccurrendum in 
the kitchen and buttery.” 

“ Alas ! reverend Father, and my good lord,” replied the 
Refectionex’, “ I did inquire after the youth, and I leai’n he is 
one who prefers the casque to the cowl, and the sword of the flcsli 
to the weapons of the spix’it.” 

“ And if it be so,” said the Abbot, “ see that thou retain him 
as a deputy-keeper and man-at-arms, and not as a lay brother of 
the Monastery — for old Tallboy, our forestei’, waxes dim-eyed, 
and hath tvdee spoiled a noble buck, by hitting him unwarily on 
the haunch. Ah ! ’tis a foul fault, the abusing by evil-killing, 
evil-di"essing, evil-appetite, or otherwise, the good creatures in- 
dulged to us for our use. Wherefore, secui’e us the service of 
this youth. Brother Hilarius, in the way that may best suit him. 
— And now. Sir Piercie Shafton, since the fates have assigned us 
a space of well-nigh an hour, ere we dare hope to enjoy moi’e 
than tlie vapour or savour of our repast, may I pi'ay you, of your 
courtesy, to tell me the cause of this visit; and, above all, to 
infoi’m us, why you will not approach our more pleasant and 
better furnished hospitium ?” 

“ Reverend Father, and my veiy good lord,” said Sir Piercie 
Shafton, “ it is well known to your wisdom, that there are stone 
walls which have ears, and that secrecy is to be looked to in 
matters which concern a man’s head.” 

The Abbot signed to his attendants, excepting the Sub-Prior, 
to leave the room, and then said, “ Your valour^ Sir Piercie, mav 
freely unburden yourself before our faithful friend and counsellor 


THE MONASTERY. 


165 


Father Eustace, the benefits of whose advice W'e may too soon 
lose, inasmuch as his mei'its will speedily recommend him to an 
higher station, in which, we trust, he may find the blessing of a 
friend and adviser as valuable as himself, since I may say of him, 
as our claustral rhyme goeth,* 

‘ Dixit Abbas ad prioris, 

Tu es homo boni moris. 

Quia semper sanioris 
Mihi das concilia.’ 

Indeed,” he added, “ the office of Sub-Prior is altogether beneath 
our dear brother ; nor can we elevate him unto that of Prior, 
which, for certain reasons, is at present kept vacant amongst us.. 
Howbeit, Father Eustace is fully possessed of my confidence, and 
worthy of yours, and well may it be said of him, Intravit in 
secretis no sir is.” 

Sir Piercie Shafton bowed to the reverend brethren, and, 
heaving a sigh, as if he would have burst his steel cuirass, he thus 
commenced his speech : — 

“ Certes, reverend sirs, I may well heave such a suspiration, 
who have, as it were, exchanged heaven for purgatory, leaving 
the lightsome sphere of the royal court of England, for a remote 
nook in this inaccessible desert — quitting the tilt-yard, where I 
was ever ready among my compeers to splinter a lance, either for 
the love of honour, or for the honour of love, in order to couch 
my knightly spear against base and pilfering besognios and 
marauders — exchanging the lighted hails, wherein I used nimbly 
to pace the swift coranto, or to move with a loftier grace in the 
stately galliard, for this rugged and decayed dungeon of rusty- 
coloured stone — quitting the gay theatre, for the solitary chimney- 
nook of a Scottish dog-house — bartering the sounds of the soul- 
ravishing lute, and the love-awakening viol-de-gamba, for the 
discordant squeak of a northern bagpipe — above all, exchanging 
the smiles of those beauties, who form a galaxy around the throne 
of England, for the cold courtesy of an untaught damsel, and the 
bewildered stare of a miller’s maiden. More might I say, of the 
exchange of the conversation of gallant knights and gay courtiers 
of mine own order and capacity, whose conceits are bright and 
vivid as the lightning, for that of monks and churchmen — but it 
were discourteous to urge that topic.” 

The Abbot listened to this list of complaints with great round 
eyes, which evinced no exact intelligence of the orator’s meaning ; 
and when the knight paused to take breath, he looked with a 
doubtful and inquiring eye at the Sub-Prior, not well knowing in 
what tone he should reply to an exordium so extraordinary. 
The Sub-Prior accordingly stepped in to the relief of his 
principal. 

“ We deeply sympathize w'ith you, Sir Knight, in the several 

* Tbe rest of this doggerel riiyme may be found in Fosbroohe’s learned v.crl? 
on British Monachism. 


THE MONASTERY. 


166 

mortifications and hardships to which fate has subjected you, 
particularly in that which has thrown you into the society of 
those, who, as they Avere conscious they deserved not such an 
honour, so neither did they at all desire it. But all this goes 
little way to expound the cause of this train of disasters, or, in 
plainer words, the reason which has compelled you into a situation 
having so few charms for you.” 

“ Gentle and reverend sir,” replied the knight, forgive an 
unhappy person, who, in giving a history of his miserie.^, dilateth 
upon them extremely, even as he who, having fallen from a pre- 
cipice, looketh upward to measure the height from which he hath 
been precipitated.” 

“ Yea, but,” said Father Eustace, ^^methinks it were wiser in 
him to tell those who come to lift him up, which of his bones have 
been broken.” 

“ You, reverend sir,” said the knight, “ have, in the encounter 
of our wits, made a fair attaint ; whereas I may be in some sort 
said to have broken my staff across.* Pardon me, grave sir, that 
[ speak the language of the tilt-yard, which is doubtless strange 
to your reverend ears. — Ah ! brave resort of the noble, the fair, 
and the gay! — Ah ! throne of love, and citadel of honour! — 
A.h ! celestial beauties, by whose bright eyes it is graced ! Never 
more shall Piercie Shafton advance, as the centre of your radiant 
glances, couch his lance, and spur his horse at the sound of the 
spirit-stirring trumpets, nobly called the voice of war — never 
more shall he baffle his adveisary’s encounter boldly, break his 
spear dexterously, and, ambling around the lovely circle, receive 
the rewards with which beauty honours chivalry !” 

Here he paused, wrung his hands, looked upwards, and seemed 
lost in contemplation of his own fallen fortunes. 

“ Mad, very mad,” whispered the Abbot to the Sub-Prior ; “ I 
would we were fairly rid of him ; for, of a truth, I expect he will 
proceed from raving to mischief — Were it not better to call up 
the rest of the brethren 1” 

But the Sub-Prior knew better than his Superior how to dis- 
tinguish the jargon of affectation from the ravings of insanity, and 
although the extremity of the knight’s passion seemed altogether 
fantastic, yet he was not ignorant to what extravagancies the 
fashion of the day can conduct its votaries. 

Allowing, therefore, two minutes’ space to permit the knight’s 
enthusiastic feelings to exhaust themselves, he again gravely 
reminded him that the Lord Abbot had taken a journey, unwonted 
to his age and habits, solely to learn in Avhat he could serve Sir 
Piercie Shafton — that it was altogether impossible he could do 
so without his receiving distinct information of the situation in 

* Attaint was a ^emi of tilting used to express the champion’s having 
his mark, or, in other words, struck his lance straight and fair against the heliiK t 
or breast of his adversary. Whereas to break the lance across, intimated a total 
failure in directing the point of the weapon on the object of his aim. 


THE MONASTERY. 


167 

ivliich he had uow souglit refuge in Scotland. — “The day wore 
on,” he observed, looking at tlie window; “and if the Abbot 
should be obliged to return to the Monastery without obtaining 
tlie necessary intelligence, the regret might be mutual, but the 
inconvenience was like to be all on Sir Piercie’s own side.” 

The hint was not thrown away. 

“ 0, goddess of courtesy !” said the knight, “ can I have so 
far forgotten thy behests, as to make this good prelate’s ease and 
time a sacrifice to my vain complaints! Know, then, most worthy, 
and not less worshipful, that I, your poor visiter and guest, am 
by birth nearly bound to the Piercie of Northumberland, whose 
fame is so widely blown through all parts of the world where 
English worth hath been known. Now, this present Earl of 
Northumberland, of whom I propose to give you the bi’ief 
history ” 

“It is altogether unnecessary,” said the Abbot ; “ we know 
him to be a good and true nobleman, and a sworn upholder of 
our Catholic faith, in the spite of the heretical woman who now 
sits upon the throne of England. And it is specially as his kins- 
man, and as knowing that ye partake with him in such devout 
and faithful belief and adherence to our holy iMother Church, that 
we say to you. Sir Piercie Shafton, that ye be heartily welcome to 
us, and that, an we wist how, we would labour to do you good 
service in your extremity.” 

“ For such kind offer I rest your most humble debtor,” said 
Sir Piercie ; “ nor need I at this moment say more than that my 
Right Honourable Cousin of Northumberland, having devised 
witli me and some others, the choice and picked spirits of the age, 
how and by what means the worship of God, according to the 
Catholic Church, might be again introduced into tliis distracted 
kingdom of England, (even as one deviseth, by the assistance of 
his friend, to catch and to bridle a runaway steed,) it pleased him 
so deeply to intrust me in tliose communications, that my personal 
safety becomes, as it were, entwined or complicated therewith. 
Natheless, as we have had sudden reason to believe, this Princess 
Elizabeth, who maintaineth around her a sort of counsellors skilful 
in tracking whatever schemes may be pursued for bringing her 
title into challenge, or for erecting again the discipline of the 
Catholic church, has obtained certain knowledge of tlie trains 
which we had laid before we could give fire unto them. Where- 
fore, my Right Honourable Cousin of Northumberland, thinking 
it best belike that one man should take both blame and shame for 
the whole, did lay the burden of all this trafficking upon my back ; 
which load I am the ratlier content to bear, in that ho hath 
always shewn himself my kind and honourable kinsman, as well 
as that my estate, I wot not how, hath of late been somewhat 
insufficient to maintain the expense of those braveries, wherewlt li 
it is mcumbent on us, who are chosen and selected spirits, to 
distinguish ourselves from the vulgar.” 


168 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ So that possibly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your private affairs 
rendered a ilJrcign journey less incommodious to you than it might 
ha.ve been to the noble earl, your right worthy cousin ?” 

“ You are right, reverend sir,” answered the courtier; “rcm 
acu — you have touched the point with a needle — My cost and 
expenses had been indeed somewhat lavish at the late triumphs 
and tourneys, and the flat-capp’d citizens had shewn themselves 
unwilling to furnish my pocket for new gallantries for the honour 
of the nation, as well as for mine own peculiar glory — and, to 
speak truth, it was in some part the hope of seeing these mattei*s 
amended that led me to desire a new world in England.” 

“ So that the miscarriage of your public enterprise, with the 
derangement of your own private affairs,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ have induced you to seek Scotland as a place of refuge 1” 

“Rem acu, once again,” said Sir Piei’cie; ‘‘and not without 
good cause, since my neck, if I remained, might have been brought 
within the circumstances of a halter — and so speedy was my 
journey northward, that I had but time to exchange my peach- 
coloured doublet of Genoa velvet, thickly laid over with goldsmith’s 
work, for this cuirass, which was made by Bonamico of Milan, 
and travelled northward with all speed, judging that I might do 
well to visit my Right Honourable Cousin of Northumberland, at 
one of his numerous castles. But as I posted towards Alnwick, 
even with the speed of a star, which, darting from its native sphere, 
shoots wildly downwards, I was met at Northallerton by ono 
Henry Vaughan, a servant of my right honourable kinsman, who 
shewed me, that as then I might not with safety come to his 
presence, seeing that, in obedience to orders from his court, he 
was obliged to issue out letters for my incarceration.” 

“ This,” said the Abbot, “ seems but hard measure on the part 
of your honourable kinsman.” 

“It might be so judged, my lord,” replied Sir Piercie ; “ never- 
theless, I will stand to the death for the honour of my Right 
Honoiu’able Cousin of Northumberland. Also, Henry Vaughan 
gave me, from my said cousin, a good horse, and a puree of gold, 
with two Border-prickers, as they are called, for my guides, who 
conducted me, by such roads and by-paths as have never been 
seen since the days of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristrem, into this 
kingdom of Scotland, and to the house of a certain baron, or one 
who holds the style of such, called Julian Avenel, with whom I 
found such reception as the place and party could afford.” 

“ And that,” said the Abbot, “ must have been right wretched ; 
“for, to judge from the appetite which Julian sheweth when 
abroad, he hath not, I judge, over-abundant provision at home.” 

“ You are right, sir — your reverence is in the right,” continued 
Sir Piercie ; “ we had but lenten fare, and, what was worse, a 
score to clear at the departure ; for though this Julian Avenel 
called us to no reckoning, yet he did so extravagantly admire the 
fashion of my poniard — the j)oi(jnet being of silver exquisitely 


THE MONASTERY. 


1G9 

hatched, and indeed the weapon being altogether a piece of exceed- 
ing rare device and beauty — that in faith I could not for very 
shame’s sake but pray his acceptance of it ; words which he gave 
me not the trouble of repeating twice, before he had stuck it into 
his greasy buff-belt, where, credit me, reverend sir, it shewed 
more like a butcher’s knife than a gentleman’s dagger.” 

“ So goodly a gift might at least have purchased you a few days’ 
hospitality,” said Father Eustace. 

“ Reverend sir,” said Sir Piercie, “ had I abidden with him, I 
should have been complimented out of every remnant of my 
wardrobe — actually flayed, by the hospitable gods I swear it! 
Sii', he secured my spare doublet, and had a pluck at my galligas- 
kins — I was enforced to beat a retreat before I was altogether 
unrigged. That Border knave, his serving-man, had a pluck at 
me too, and usurped a scarlet cassock and steel cuirass belonging 
to the page of my body, whom I was fain to leave behind me. In 
good time I received a letter from my Right Honourable Cousin, 
shewing me that he had written to you in my behalf, and sent 
to your charge two mails filled with wearing apparel — namely, 
my rich crimson silk doublet, slashed out and lined with cloth ot 
gold, which I wore at the last revels, with baldric and trimmings 
to correspond — also two pair black silk slops, with hanging garters 
of carnation silk — also the flesh-coloured silken doublet, with the 
trimmings of fur, in which I danced the salvage man at the Gray’s- 
Inn mummery — also ” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prioi’, “ I pray you to spare the 
farther inventory of your wardrobe. The monks of Saint Mary’s 
are no free-booting barons, and whatever part of your vestments 
arrived at our house, have been this day faithfully brought hither, 
with the mails which contained them. I may presume from what 
has been said, as we have indeed been given to understand by tho 
Earl of Northumberland, that your desire is to remain for the 
present as unknown and as unnoticed, as may be consistent with 
your high worth and distinction ?” 

“ Alas, reverend father !” replied the courtier, “a blade when 
it is in the scabbard cannot give lustre, a diamond when it is in 
the casket cannot give light, and worth, when it is compelled by 
circumstances to obscure itself, cannot draw observation — my 
retreat can only attract. the admiration of those few to whom 
circumstances permit its displaying itself.” 

“ I conceive now, my venerable father and lord,” said the Sub- 
Prior, “ that your wisdom will assign such a course of conduct to 
this noble knight, as may be alike consistent with his safety, and 
with the weal of the community. For you wot well, that pei-ilous 
strides liave been made in these audacious days, to the destruc- 
tion of all ecclesiastical foundations, and that our holy community 
has been repeatedly menaced. Hitherto they have found no flaw in 
our raiment; but a party, friendly as well to the Queen of England, 
tis to the heretical doctrines of the schismatical church, or even 


THE MONASTERY. 


170 

to worse and wilder forms of heresy, prevails now at the court of 
our sovereign, who dare not yield to her suffering clergy the 
protection she would gladly extend to them.” 

“ My lord, and reverend sir,” said the knight, “ I will gladly 
relieve you of my presence, while ye canvass this matter at your 
freedom ; and to speak truly, I am desirous to see in what case 
the chamberlain of my noble kinsman hath found my wardrobe, 
and how he hath packed the same, and whether it has suffered 
from the journey — there are four suits of as pure and elegant 
device as ever the fancy of a fair lady doated upon, every one 
having a treble, and appropriate change of ribbons, trimmings, 
and fringes, which, in case of need, may as it were renew each of 
them, and multiply the four into twelve. — There is also my sad- 
coloured riding-suit, and three cut-work sliirts with falling bands 
— I pray you, pardon me — I must needs see how matters stand 
with them without farther dallying.” 

Thus speaking, he left the room ; and the Sub-Prior, looking 
after him significantly, added, Where the treasure is will the 
heart be also.” 

“ Saint Mary preserve our wits !” said the Abbot, stunned with 
the knight’s abundance of- words; “were man’s brains ever so 
stuffed with silk and broadcloth, cut-work, and I wot not what 
besides ! And what could move the Earl of Northumberland to 
assume for his bosom counsellor, in matters of depth and danger, 
such a feather-brained coxcomb as this 1” 

“ Had he been other than what he is, venerable father,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ he had been less fitted for the part of scape-goat, 
to which his Right Honourable Cousin had probably destined him 
from the commencement, in case of their plot failing. I know 
something of this Piercie Shafton. The legitimacy of his mother’s 
descent from the Piercie family, the point on which he is most 
jealous, hath been called in question. If hairbrained courage, 
and an outrageous spirit of gallantry, can make good his preten- 
sions to the high lineage he claims, these qualities have never been 
denied him. For the rest, he is one of the ruffling gallants of the 
time, like Rowland Yorke, Stukely,* and others, who wear out 
their fortunes, and endanger their lives, in idle braveries, in order 
that they may be esteemed the only choice gallants of the time ; 
and afterwards endeavour to repair their estate, by engaging in 
the desperate plots and conspiracies which wiser heads have 
devised. To use one .of his own conceited similitudes, such 
courageous fools resemble hawks, which the wiser conspirator 
keeps hooded and blinded on his wrist until the quarry is on tlie 
wing, and who are then flown at them.” 

“Saint Mary,” said the Abbot, “he were an evil guest to 
introduce into our quiet household. Our young monks make 
bustle enough, and more than is beseeming God’s servants^ 

* See Note G. Rowland Yorke, and Siickely. 


THE MONASTERY. 171 

about tlieir outwai’d attire already — this knight were enough to 
turn their brains, from the Vestiarius down to the very scullio]i 
boy.” 

‘‘‘ A worse evil might follow,” said the Sub-Prior ; " in these bad 
days, the patrimony of the church is bought and sold, forfeited 
and distrained, as if it were the unhallowed soil appertaining to a 
secular baron. Think what penalty awaits us, were we convicted 
of harbouring a rebel to her whom they call the Queen of England i 
There would neither be wanting Scottish parasites to beg the lands 
of the foundation, nor an army from England to burn and harry 
the Halidome. The men of Scotland were once Scotsmen, fii'm 
and united in their love of their country, and throwing every 
other consideration aside when the frontier was menaced — now 
they are — what shall I call them — the one part French, the 
other part English, considering their dear native country merely 
as a prize-fighting stage, upon which foreigners are welcome to 
decide their quarrels.” 

“ Benedicite !” replied the Abbot, “ they are indeed slippery 
and evil times.” 

“ And therefore,” said Father Eustace, “ we must walk warily 

— we must not, for example, bring this man — this Sir Piercie 
Shafton, to our house of Saint Mary’s.” 

“ But how then shall we dispose of him V’ replied the Abbot ; 
“ bethink thee that he is a sufferer for holy Church’s sake — that 
his patron, the Earl of Northumberland, hath been our friend, and 
that, lying so near us, he may work us weal or wo according as 
we deal with his kinsman.” 

“ And, accordingly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ for these reasons, as 
well as for discharge of the great duty of Christian charity, I 
would protect and relieve this man. Let him not go back to 
Julian Avenel — that unconscientious baron would not stick to 
plunder the exiled stranger — Let him remain here — the spot is 
secluded, and if the accommodation be beneath his quality, dis- 
covery will become the less likely. We will make such means for 
his convenience as we can devise.” 

Will he be persuaded, thinkest thou ?” said the Abbot ; “I will 
leave my own travelling bed for his repose, and send up a suitoblo 
easy-chair.” 

“With such easements,” said the Sub-Prior, “he must not 
complain ; and then, if threatened by any sudden danger, he can 
soon come down to the sanctuary, where we will harbour him in 
secret until means can be devised of dismissing him in safety.” 

“ Were we not better,” said the Abbot, “ send him on to the 
court, and get rid of him at once 1” 

“ Ay, but at the expense of our friends — this butterfly may 
fold his wings, and lie under cover in the cold air of Glendearg ; 
but were he at Holyrood, he would, did his life depend on it, 
expand his spangled drapery in the eyes of the queen and court 

— Piither than fail of distinction, he would sue for love to our 


THE MONASTERY. 


172 

jrracious sovereign — the eyes of all men would be upon him in 
the course of three short days, and the international peace of the 
two ends of the island endangered for a creature, who, like a silly 
moth, cannot abstain from fluttering round a light.” 

“ Thou hast prevailed with me, Father Eustace,” said the 
Abbot, “and it will go hard but I improve on thy plan — I will 
send up in secret, not only household stuff, but w'ine and wassell- 
bread. There is a young swankie here who shoots venison well, 
I will give him directions to see that the knight lacks none.” 

“ Whatever accommodation he can have, which infers not a 
risk of discovery,” said the Sub-Prior, “ it is our duty to afford 
him.” 

“ Nay,” said the Abbot, “ w'e will do more, and will instantly 
despatch a servant express to the keeper of our revestiary to send 
us such things as he may want, even this night. See it done, good 
father.” 

“I will,” answered Father Eustace; “but I hear the gull 
clamorous for some one to truss his points.* He will be fortunate 
if he lights on any one here who can do him the office of groom 
of the chamber.” 

“ I would he would appear,” said the Abbot, “ for here comes 
the Refectioner with the collation — By my faith, the ride hath 
given me a sharp appetite !” 


CHAPTER XVIT. 


I’ll seek for otlicr aid — Spirits, they say, 

Flit round invisible, as thick as motes 
Dance in the sunbeam. If that spelt 
Or necromancer’s sigil can compel them, 

They shall hold council with me. 

James Duff. 

The reader’s attention must be recalled to Halbert Glendinning, 
who had left the Tow’er of Glendearg immediately after his 
quarrel with its new guest, Sir Piercie Shafton. As he walked 
wdth a rapid pace up the glen. Old Martin followed him, beseeching 
liim to be less hasty. 

‘‘ Halbert,” said the old man, “ you w'ill never live to have 
white hair, if you take fire thus at every spark of provocation.” 

“ And why should I wish it, old man,” said Halbert, “ if I am 
to be the butt that every fool may aim a shaft of scorn against ? 
— What avails it, old n’.an, that you yourself move, sleep, and 
wake, eat thy niggard meal, and repose on thy hard pallet? — 

* The points were the strings of cord or ribbon, fso called, because pointed 
with metal like the laces of women’s stays,) which attached the doublet to the 
hose. They were very numerous, and required assistance to tie them properly, 
which was called trumng. 


THE MONASTERY. 


173 

Why art thou so well pleased that the morning should call theo 
up to daily toil, and the evening again lay thee down a wearied- 
out wretch ? Were it not better sleep and wake no more, than to 
undergo this dull exchange of labour for insensibility and of insen- 
sibility for labour ?” 

“ God help me,” answered Martin, “ there may be truth in 
what thou sayest — but walk slower, for my old limbs cannot 
keep pace with your young legs — walk slower, and I will tell you 
why age, though unlovely, is yet endurable.” 

“Speak on then,” said Halbert, slackening his pace, “but 
remember we must seek venison to refresh the fatigues of these 
holy men, who will this morning have achieved a journey of ten 
miles ; and if we reach not the Brocksburn head, we are scarce 
like to see an antler.” 

“Then know, my good Halbert,” said Martin, “whom I love 
as my own son, that I am satisfied to live till death calls me, 
because my Maker wills it. Ay, and although I spend what men 
call a hard life, pinched with cold in winter, and burnt with heat 
in summer, though I feed hard and sleep hard, and am held 
mean and despised, yet I bethink me, that were I of no use on 
the face of this fair creation, God would withdi’aw me from it.” 

“ Thou poor old man,” said Halbert, “ and can such a vain con- 
ceit as this of thy fancied use, reconcile thee to a world where thou 
playest so poor a part ?” 

“ My part was nearly as poor,” said Martin, “my person nearly 
as much despised, the day that I saved my mistress and her child 
from perishing in the wilderness.” 

“ Right, Martin,” answered Halbert, “ there, indeed, thou didst 
what might be a sufficient apology for a whole life of insignifi- 
cance.” 

“ And do you account it for nothing. Halbert, that I should have 
the power of giving you a lesson 'of patience, and submission to 
the destinies of Providence ? Methinks there is use for the gray 
hairs on the old scalp, were it but to instruct tlie green head by 
precept and by example.” 

Halbert held down his face, and remained silent for a minute 
or two, and then resumed his discourse ; “ Martin, seest thou 
aught changed in me of late 

“Surely,” said Martin. “I have always known you hasty, 
wild, and inconsiderate, rude, and prompt to speak at the volley 
and without reflection ; but now, methinks, your beai’ing, without 
losing its natural fire, has something in it of force and dignity 
which it had not before. It seems as if you had fallen asleep a 
carle, and awakened a gentleman.” 

“ Thou canst judge, then, of noble bearing ?” said Halbert. 

“ Surely,” answered Martin, in some sort I can ; for I have 
travelled through court, and camp, and city, with my master 
Walter Avenel, although he could do nothing for me in the long 
run, but give me room for two score of sheep on the hill — and 


THE MONASTERY. 


174 

surety even now, while I speak with you, I feel sensible that my 
language is moi*e refined than it is my wont to use, and that — 
though I know not the reason — the rude northern dialect, 
so familiar to my tongue, has given place to a more town-bi’ed 
speech.” 

“ And this change in thyself and me, thou canst by no means 
account for said young Glendinning. 

“Change !” replied Martin, “by our Lady it is not so much 
a change which I feel, as a recalling and renewing sentiments 
and expressions which I had some thirty years since, ere Tibb 
and I set up our humble household. It is singular, that your 
society should have this sort of influence over me. Halbert, and 
that I should never have experienced it ere now.” 

“ Thinkest thou,” said Halbert, “ thou seest in mo aught that 
can raise me from this base, low, despised state, into one where I 
may rank with those proud men, who now despise my clownish 
poverty 1” 

Martin paused an instant, and then answered “ Doubtless you 
may. Halbert ; as broken a ship has come to land. Heard ye 
never of Hughie Dun, who left this Halidome some thirty-five 
years gone by ? A deliverly fellow was Hughie — could read and 
write like a priest, and could wield brand and buckler with the 
best of the riders. I mind him — the like of him was never seen 
in the Halidome of Saint Mary’s, and so was seen of the prefer- 
ment that God sent him.” 

“ And what was that ?” said Halbert, his eyes sparkling with 
eagerness. 

“ Nothing less,” answered Martin, “ than body-servant to the 
Archbishop of Saint Andrews !” 

Halbert’s countenance fell. — “A servant — and to a priest ? 
Was this all that knowledge and activity could raise him to 1” 

Martin, in his turn, looked with wistful surprise in the face of 
his young friend. “ And to what could fortune lead him farther ?” 
answered he. “ The son of a kirk-feuar is not the Stuff that lords 
and knights are made of. Coui’age and school craft cannot 
change churl’s blood into gentle blood, I trow. I have heard, 
forby, that Hughie Dun left a good five hundred punds of Scots 
money to his only daughter, and that she married the Bailie of 
Pittenweem.” 

At^ this moment, and while Halbert was embarrassed with 
devising a suitable answer, a deer bounded across their path. 
In an instant the cross-bow was at the youth’s shoulder, the bolt 
whistled, and tlie deer, after giving one bound upright, dropt 
dead on the green sward. 

“ There lies the venison our dame wanted,” said Martin ; “ who 
v/ould have thought of an out-lying stag being so low down the 
glen at this season ? — And it is a hart of grease too, in full 
season, and three inches of fat on the brisket. Now fliis is all 
your luck. Halbert, that follows you, go where you like. Were 


THE MONASTERY. 


175 

rou to put ill for it, I would warrant you were made one of the 
Abbot’s yeoman-prickers, and ride about in a purple doublet as 
bold as the best.” 

“ Tush, man,” answered Halbert, “ I will serve the Queen or 
no one. Take thou care to have dowm the venison to the Tower, 
since they expect it. I will on to the moss. I have two or three 
bird-bolts at my girdle, and it may be I shall find wild-fowl.” 

He hastened Ids pace, and was soon out of sight. Martin 
paused for a moment, and looked after him. “ There goes the 
making of a right gallant stripling, an ambition have not the 
spoiling of him — Serve the Queen ! said he. By my faith, and 
she hath worse servants, from all that I e’er heard of him. And 
wherefore should he not keep a high head ? They that ettle to 
the top of the ladder will at least get up some rounds. They 
that mint* at a gown of gold, will always get a sleeve of it. 
But come, sir, (addressing the stag,) you shall go to Glendearg 
on my two legs somewhat more slowly than you \vere frisking it 
even now on yom* own four nimble shanks. Nay, by my faith, 
if you be so heavy, I will content me with the best of you, and 
that ’s the haunch and the nombles, and e’en heave up the rest 
on the old oak-tree yonder, and come back for it with one of the 
yauds.”f 

While Martin returned to Glendearg with the venison. Halbert 
prosecuted his walk, breathing more easily since he was free oi 
his companion. “ The domestic of a proud and lazy priest — 
body -squire to the Archbishop of Saint Andrews,” he repeated to 
himself ; “ and this, with the privilege of allying his blood with the 
Bailie of Pittenweem, is thought a preferment worth a brave 
man’s struggling for nay more, a preferment which, if allowed, 
should crown the hopes, past, present, and to come, of the son of 
a Kirk-vassal ! By Heaven, but that I find in me a reluctance to 
practise their acts of nocturnal rapine, I Avould rather take the 
jack and lance, and join with the Border-ridei-s. — Something I 
will do. Here, degraded and dishonoured, I will not live the scorn 
of each whifiiing stranger from the South, because, forsooth, he 
wears tinkling spurs on a tawny boot. This thing — this phantom, 
be it what it will, I will see it once more. Since I spoke with her, 
and touched her hand, thoughts and feelings have dawned on me, 
of which my former IKe had not even dreamed ; but shall I, who 
feel my father’s glen too narrow for my expanding spirit, brook 
to be bearded in it by this vain gewgaw of a courtier, and in the 
sight too of Mary Avenel 1 I will not stoop to it, by Heaven !” 

As he spoke thus, he arrived in the sequestered glen of Corri- 
nan-shian, as it verged upon the hour of noon. A few moments 
he remained Looking upon the fountain, and doubting in his own 
mind with what countenance the White Lady might receive him. 
She had not indeed expressly forbidden his again evoking her ; 

* Mini — aim at. 

f Yauds — horses; more particularly horses of labour. 


THE MONASTEUY. 


176 

but yet there was something like such a prohibition implied in the 
farewell, which recommended him to wait for another guide. 

Halbert Glendinning did not long, however, allow himself to 
pause. Hardihood was the natural characteristic of his mind r 
and under the expansion and modification which his feelings had 
lately undergone, it had been augmented rather than diminished. 
He drew his sword, undid the buskin from his foot, bowed three 
times with deliberation towards the fountain, and as often towards 
the tree, and repeated the same rhyme as formerly, — 

“ Thrice to the holy brake — 

Thrice to the well : — 

I bid thee awake. 

White Maid of Avenel ! 

Noon gleams on the lake — 

Noon glows on the fell — 

Waive thee, O wake, 

White Maid of Avenel !” 

His eye was on the holly bush as he spoke the last line ; and it 
was not without an involuntary shuddering that he saw the air 
betwixt his eye and that object become more dim, and condense, 
as it were, into the faint appearance of a foi’in, through which, 
however, so thin and transparent was the first appearance of the 
phantom, he could discern the outline of the bush, as through a 
veil of fine crape. But, gradually, it darkened into a more sub- 
stantial appearance, and the White Lady stood before him with 
displeasure on her brow. She spoke, and her speech was still 
song, or rather measured chant ; but, as if now more familiar, 
it fiowed occasionally in modulated blank-verse, and at other 
times in the lyrical measure which she had used at their former 
meeting. 

‘ ‘ This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot, 

And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing wind, 

And the mer-maiden w'eeps in her crystal grot : 

For this is the day that a deed was wrought. 

In which we have neither part nor share, 

For the children of clay was salvation bought. 

But not for the forms of sea or air ! 

And ever the mortal is most forlorn. 

Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn.” 

Spirit,” said Halbert Glendinning boldly, “ it is bootless to 
threaten one who holds his life at no rate. Thine anger can but 
slay ; nor do I think thy power extendeth, or thy will stretcheth, 
so far. The terrors which your race produce upon others, are 
vain against me. My heart is hardened against fear, as by a 
sense of despair. If I am, as thy words infer, of a race more 
peculiarly the care of Heaven than thine, it is mine to call, it 
must be thine to answer. I am the nobler being.” 

As he spoke, the figure looked upon him with a fierce and 
ireful countenance, which, without losing the similitude of that 


THE MONASTERY. 


177 

which It usually exhibited, had a wilder and more exaggerated 
cast of features. The eyes seemed to contract and become more 
fiery, and slight convulsions passed over the face, as if it was 
about to be transformed into something hideous. The whole 
appearance resembled those faces which the Imagination sum- 
mons up when it is disturbed by laudanum, but which do not 
remain under the visionary’s command, and, beautiful in their 
first appearance, become wild and grotesque ere we can arrest 
them. 

But when Halbert had concluded his bold speech, the White 
Lady stood before him with the same pale, fixed, and melancholy 
aspect, which she usually bore. He had expected the agitation 
which she exhibited would conclude in some frightful metamor- 
phosis. Folding her arms on her bosom, the phantom replied, — 

Daring youth ! for tliee it is well, 

Here calling me in haunted dell, 

That thy heart has not quail’d, 

Nor thy courage fail’d, 

And that thou couldst brook 
The angry look 
Of Her of Avenek 
Did one limb shiver, 

Or an eyelid quiver, 

Thou wert lost- for ever. 

Though I am form’d from the ether blue. 

And my blood is of the unfallen dew. 

And thou art framed of mud and dust, 

’Tis thine to speak, reply I must.” 

“ I demand of thee, then,” said the youth, “ by what charm it 
is that I am thus altered in mind and in wishes — that T think no 
longer of deer or dog, of bow or bolt — that my soul spurns tlic 
bounds of this obscure glen — that my blood boils at an insult 
from one by whose stirrup I would some days since have run for 
a whole summer’s morn, contented and honoured by the notice 
of a single word ? Why do I now seek to mate me with pi'inces, 
and knights, and nobles ? — Am I the same, who but yesterday, 
as it were, slumbered in contented obscurity, but who am to-day 
awakened to glory and ambition ? — Speak — tell me, if thou canst, 
the meaning of this change ? — Am I spell-bound ? — or have I till 
now been under the influence of a spell, that I feel as another 
being, yet am conscious of remaining the same ? Speak and tell 
me, is it to thy influence that the change is owing 

Tlie White Lady replied, — 

” A mightier wizard far than T 
Wields o’er the universe his power ; 

Him owns the eagle in the sky, 

The tiirl le in the bower. 

Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still. 

He wields the heart of man at wi!!. 

From ill to good, from good to ill, 

In cot and castle-tower.” 


X. 


178 


THE MONASTERY. 


« Spealc not thus darkly,” said the youth, colouring so deeply, 
that face, neck, and hands, were in a sanguine glow ; make mo 
sensible of thy purpose.” 

The spirit answered, — 

“ Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
la fill’d with Mary Avenel ! 

Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary’s view it will not brook ? 

Ask it, why thou seek’st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise? — 

Why thou spurn ’st thy lowly lot ? — 

Why thy pastimes are forgot ? — - 
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 
Mend thy luck or lose thy life ? 

Ask thy heart, and it shall tell. 

Sighing from its secret cell, 

’Tis for Mary Avenel.” 

« Tell me, then,” said Halbert, his cheek still deeply crimsoned, 
thou who hast S9,id to me that which I dared not say to myself, 
by what means shall I urge my passion — by what means make 
it known ?” 

The White Lady replied, — 

“ Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like these thou canst not task me. 

We only see the passing show 
Of human passions’ ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageant’s idle glance 
As mortals eye the northern dance, 

When thousand streamers, flashing bright. 

Career it o’er the brow of night, 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams, 

But feel no influence from their beams.” 

“ Yet thine own fate,” replied Halbert, “ unless men gi’eatly 
err, is linked with that of mortals ?” 

The phantom answered, — 

“ By ties mysterious link’d, our fated race 
Holds strange connection with the sons of men. 

The star that rose upon the House of Avenel, 

When Norman Ulric first assumed the name. 

That star, when culminating in its orbit. 

Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew. 

And this bright font received it — and a Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of life 
Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel, 

And with the star that rules it.” 

“ Speak yet more plainly,” answered young Glendinning ; ‘‘ of 
this I can understand nothing. Say, what hath forged thy 
wierded * link of destiny with the House of Avenel ? Say, espe- 
cially, what fate now overhangs that house ?” 

The White Lady replied, — 

“ Look on my girdle — on this thread of gold — 

’Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, 

* Wierded— i&ieA. 


THE MONASTERY. 


179 


And, but there is a spell on 't, would not bind. 

Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe. 

But when ’twas donn’d, it was a massive chain. 

Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, 

Even when his locks were longest — it hath dwindled, 

Hath minish’d in its substance and its strength. 

As Slink the greatness of the Ifouse of Avenel. 

When this frail thread gives way, 1 to the elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent me. 

Ask mo no more of this I — the .stars forbid It.” 

“ Then canst thou read the stars,” answered the youth, “ and 
nmyest tell me the fate of my passion, if thou canst not aid it ?” 

The White Lady again replied, — 

“ Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 

Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, 

And the o’er- wearied warder leaves the light-house ; 

There is an influence sorrowful and fearful. 

That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion, 

Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes.” 

“ And rivalry 1” repeated Glendinning ; “ it is then as I feared! 

— But shall that English silkworm presume to heard me in my 
father’s house, and in the presence of Mary Avenel ? — Give me 
to meet him, spirit, — give me to do away the vain distinction of 
rank on which he refuses me the combat. Place us on equal 
terms, and gleam the stars with what aspect they will, the sword 
of my father shall control their influences.” 

She answered as promptly as before, — 

“ Complain not of me, child of clay, 

If to thy harm I yield the way. 

VVe, who soar thy sphere above. 

Know not aught of hate or love ; 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood. 

My gifts to evil turn, or good.” 

“ Give me to redeem my honour,” said Halbert Glendinning 

— ‘^give me to retoi't on my proud rival the insults he has 
thrown on me, and let the rest fare as it will. If I cannot 
revenge my wrong, I shall sleep quiet, and know nought of my 
disgrace.” 

Tlie phantom failed not to reply, — 

“ When Piercie Shafton boastetli high, 

Let this token meet his e 3 ’e. 

The sun is westering from the dell. 

Thy wish is granted — fai’e thee well !” 

As the White I^ady spoke or chanted these last w'ords, she 
undid from her locks a silver bodkin around wiiich they were 
twisted, and gave it to Halbert Glendinning ; then shaking her 
dishevelled hair till it fell like a veil around her, the outlines of 
her form gradually became as diffuse as her flowing tresses, her 
countenance grew pale as the moon in her first quarter, her 
features became indistinguishable, and she melted into the air. 

Habit inures us to wondets \ but the youth did not find himseif 


180 


THE MONASTERY. 


alone by the fountain without experiencing, though in a much 
less degree, the revulsion of sph’its which he had felt upon the 
phantom’s former disappearance. A doubt strongly pressed upon 
his mind, whether it were safe to avail himself of the gifts of a 
spirit which did not even pretend to belong to the class of angels, 
and might, for aught he knew, have a much worse lineage than 
that which she was pleased to avow. “ I will speak of it,” he 
said, “ to Edward, who is clerkly learned, and will tell me what 
I should do. And yet, no — Edward is scrupulous and wary. — 
I will prove the effect of her gift on Sir Piercie Shafton if he 
again braves me, and by the issue, I will be myself a sufficient 
judge whether there is danger in resorting to her counsel. 
Home, then, home — and we shall soon learn whether that home 
shall longer hold me ; for not again will I brook insult, with my 
father’s sword by my side, and Mary for the spectator of m}' 
disgrace.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


1 give thee eighteenpence a-dny. 

And my bow shalt thou bear, 

And over all the north country, 

I make thee the chief rydere. 

And I thirteenpence a-day, quoth the queen, 

Ry God and by my faye, 

Come fetch thy payment when thou wilt. 

No man shall say thee nay. 

William of Cloudesley. 

The manners of the age did not permit the inhabitants of Glen- 
tlearg to partake of the collation tvhich was placed in the spence 
of that ancient tower, before the Lord Abbot and his attendants, 
and Sir Piercie Shafton. Dame Glendinning was excluded, both 
by inferiority of I’ank and by sex, for (though it was a rule often 
neglected) the Superior of Saint Mary’s was debarred from taking 
his meals in female society. To Mary Avenel the latter, and to 
Edward Glendinning the former, incapacity attached; but it 
pleased his lordship to require their presence in the apartment, 
and to say sundry kind words to them upon the ready and hos- 
pitable reception which they had afforded him. 

The smoking haunch now stood upon the table ; a napkin, white 
as snow, was, with due reverence, tucked under the chin of the 
Abbot by the Refectioner ; and nought was wanting to commence 
the repast, save the presence of Sir Piercie Shafton, who at length 
appeai-ed, glittering like the sun, in a carnation-velvet doublet, 
slashed and puffed out with cloth of silver, his hat of the newest 
block, surrounded by a hatband of goldsmith’s work, while around 
his neck he wore a collar of gold, set with rubies and topazes so 
rich, that it vindicated his anxiety for the safety of his baggage 
from being founded upon his love of mere finery. This goi’geous 


TIIK MONASTERY. 


lol 


collar or cluiin, resembling those worn by the knights of the 
highest orders of chivalry, fell down on his breast, and terini* 
nated in a medallion. 

“ We waited for Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the Abbot, hastily 
assuming his place in the great chair which the Kitchener 
advanced to the table with I'eady hand. 

“ I pray your pardon, reverend father, and my good lord,” 
replied that pink of courtesy ; “ I did but wait to cast my riding 
slough, and to transmew myself into some civil form meeter for 
this worshipful company.” 

“ I cannot but praise your gallantry. Sir Knight,” said the 
Abbot, “and your prudence also, for choosing the fitting time to 
appear thus adorned. Certes, had that goodly chain been visible 
in some part of your late progress, there was risk that the lawful 
owner might have parted company therewith.” 

“ This chain, said your reverence ?” answered Sir Piercie ; 
“ surely it is but a toy, a trifle, a slight thing which shews but 
poorly with this doublet — marry, when I wear that of the murrey- 
coloured double-piled Genoa velvet, puffed out with ciprus, the 
gems, being relieved and set off by the darker and more grave 
ground of the stuff, shew like stars giving a lustre tlu’ough dark 
clouds.” 

“ I nothing doubt it,” said the Abbot, “ but I pray you to sit 
down at the board.” 

But Sir Piercie had now got into his element, and w'as not 
easily interrupted — “I own,” he continued, “ that slight as the 
toy is, it might perchance have had some captivation for Julian — 
Santa Maria !” said he, interrupting himself ; “ what was I about 
to say, and my fair and beauteous Protection, or shall I rather 
term her my Discretion, here in presence ! — Indiscreet hath it 
been in your Affability, 0 most lovely Discretion, to suffer a 
stray word to have broke out of the pen-fold of his mouth, that 
might overleap the fence of civility, and trespass on the manor of 
decorum.” 

“ Marry !” said the Abbot, somewhat impatiently, “the greatest 
discretion that I can see in the matter is, to eat our victuals 
being hot — Father Eustace, say the Benedicite, and cut up the 
haunch.” 

The Sub-Prior readily obeyed the first part of the Abbot’s 
injunction, but paused upon the second — “ It is Friday, most 
I’everend,” he said in Latin, desirous that the hint should escape, 
if possible, the ears of the stranger. 

“ We are travellers,” said the Abbot, in reply, “ and 'viator ibus 
licitum est — You know the canon — a traveller must eat what 
food his hard fate sets before him. — I grant you all a dispensa- 
tion to eat flesh this day, conditionally that you, brethren, say the 
Confiteor at curfew time, that the knight give alms to his ability, 
and that all and each of you fast from flesh on such day within 
tJie next month that shall seem most convenient j wherefore fall to 


THE MONASTERY. 


182 . 

nud eat your food with clieerful countenances, and you, Father 
Ilefeetioner, da mixtus.'’ 

While the Abbot was tlius stating the conditions on which his 
indulgence was granted, he had already half finished a slice of 
the noble haunch, and now washed it down wuth a flagon of 
rhenish, modestly tempered Avith Avater. 

“ Well is it said,” he obserAX'd, as he required from the Refec- 
tioner another slice, “that virtue is its oavu reAvard ; for though 
this is but humble fare, and hastily prepared, and eaten in a poor 
chamber, I do not remember me of having had such an appetite 
since I Avas a simple brother in the Abbey of Dundrennan, and 
was Avont to labour in the garden from morning until nones, Avhen 
our Abbot struck the Cymhalmn. Then Avould I enter keen Avith 
hunger, parched Avith thirst, (da mihi xinum qucBso, et merum sit,) 
and partake with appetite of Avhatever Avas set before us, according 
to our rule ; feast or fast-day, caritas or penltentia, Avas the same 
to me. I had no stomach complaints then, Avhich now crave both 
the aid of Avine and choice cookery, to render my food acceptable 
to my palate, and easy of digestion.” 

“It may be, holy father,” said the Sub-Prior, “ an occasional 
ride to the extremity of Saint Mary’s patrimony, may haA^e the 
same happy effect on your health as the air of the garden at 
Dundrennan.” 

“ Perchance, with our patroness’s blessing, such progresses 
may adA^antage us,” said the Abbot; “ haAung an especial eye that 
our venison is carefully killed by some Av'oodsman that is master 
of his craft.” 

“ If the Lord Abbot Avill permit me,” said the Kitchener, “ I 
think the best Avay to assure his lordship on that important point, 
Avould be to retain as a yeoman-pricker, or deputy-ranger, the 
eldest son of this good Avoman, Dame Glendinning, Avho is here to 
wait upon us. I should knoAv by mine office Avhat belongs to 
killing of game, and I can safely pronounce, that never saAv I, or 
any other coquinarius, a bolt so justly shot. It has cloA'en the 
very heart of the buck.” 

“ What speak you to us of one good shot, father ?” said Sir 
Piercie ; “ I would advise you that such no more maketh a shooter, 
than doth one swalloAv make a summer — I have seen this spi’in- 
gald of Avhom you speak, and if his hand can send forth his shafts 
as boldly as his tongue doth utter presumptuous speeches, I will 
OAvn him as good an archer as Robin Hood.” 

“ Marry,” said the Abbot, “ and it is fitting Ave knoAV the truth 
of this matter from the dame herself ; for ill advised Avere Ave to 
give Avay to any rashness in this matter, Avhereby the bounties 
Avhich Heaven and our patroness provide might be unskilfully 
mangled, and rendered unfit for worthy men’s use. — Stand foi’th, 
therefore, Dame Glendinning, and tell to us, as thy liege lord and 
spiritual Superior, using plainness and truth, Avithout eitlier fear 
or favour, as being a matter Avhereiu Ave are deeply interested, 


THE MONASTERY. 183 

Doth this son of thine use his how as well as the Father Kitchener 
avers to usT’ 

“ So please your noble fatherhood,” answered Dame Glendin- 
ning, with a deep curtsy, “ I. should know somewhat of archery to 
ray cost, seeing my husband — God assoilzie him ! — was slain in 
the field of Pinkie with an arrow-shot, while he was fighting under 
the Kirk’s banner, as became a liege vassal of the Halidome. lie 
was a valiant man, please your reverence, and an honest ; and 
saving that he loved a bit of venison, and shifted for his living at 
a time as Border-men will sometimes do, I wot not of sin that he 
did. And yet, though I have paid for mass after mass to the 
matter of a forty shilling, besides a quarter of wheat and four 
firlots of rye, I can have no assurance yet that he has been 
delivered from purgatory.” 

“ Dame,” said the Lord Abbot, “ this shall be looked into heed- 
fully ; and since thy husband fell, as thou sayest, in the Kirk’s 
quarrel, and under her banner, rely upon it that we will have him 
out of purgatory forthwith — that is, always provided he be there. 
— But it is not of thy husband whom we now devise to speak, but of 
thy son ; not of a shot Scotsman, but of a shot deer — Wherefore 
I say, answer me to the point, is thy son a practised archer, ay 
or no 1” 

“ Alack ! my reverend lord,” replied the widow, “ and my croft 
would be better tilled, if I could answer your reverence that he 
is not. — Practised archer! — marry, holy sir, I would he would 
practise something else — cross-bow and long-bow, hand-gun and 
hackbut, falconet and saker, he can shoot with them all. And if 
it would please this right honourable gentleman, our guest, to hold 
out his hat at the distance of a hundred yards, our Halbert shall 
send shaft, bolt, or bullet through it, (so that right honourable 
gentleman swerve not, but hold out steady,) and I will forfeit a 
quarter of barley if he touch but a knot of his ribands. I have 
seen our old Martin do as much, and so has our right reverend 
the Sub-Prior, if he be pleased to remember it.” 

“ I am not like to forget it, dame,” said Father Eustace ; “ for 
I knew not which most to admire, the composure of the young 
marksman, or the steadiness of the old mark. Yet I presume not 
to advise Sir Piercie Shafton to subject his valuable beaver, and 
yet inoi’e valuable person, to such a I’isk, unless it should be his 
own special pleasure.” 

“ Be assimed it is not,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, something 
hastily ; “ be well assured, holy father, that it is not. I dispute 
not the lad’s qualities, for which your reverence vouches. But 
bow's are but wood, strings are but flax, or the silk-worm’s excre- 
ment at best ; archers are but men, fingers may slip, eyes may 
dazzle, the blindest may hit the butt, the best marker may shoot 
a bow’s length beside. Therefore will we try no perilous experi- 
ments.” 

“ Be that as you will, Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot ; “ memntimo 


184 


THE MOXASTEIIV. 


we will )iame this youth bow-hearer in the forest granted to us by 
good King David, that the chase might recreate our wearied spirits, 
the flesh of tlie deer improve our poor commons, and the hides 
cover the books of our library ; thus tending at once to the suste- 
nance of body and soul.” 

“ Kneel down, woman, kneel down,” said the Refectioner and 
the Kitchener, with one voice, to Dame Glendinning, “ and kisa 
his lordship’s hand, for the grace Avhich he has granted to thy 
son.” 

They then, as if they had been chanting the service and the 
responses, set off in a sort of duetto, enumerating the advantages 
of the situation. 

“ A green gown and a pair of leathern galligaskins every Pen- 
tecost,” said the Kitchener. 

“ Four marks by the year at Candlemas,” answered the Refec- 
tioner. 

“ An hogshead of ale at IMartlemas, of the double strike, and 
single ale at pleasure, as he shall agree Avith the Cellarer ” 

“ Who is a reasonable man,” said the Abbot, “ and Avill encou- 
rage an active serA^ant of the convent.” 

“ A mess of broth and a dole of mutton or beef, at the Kitchen- 
er’s, on each high holiday,” resumed the Kitchener. 

“ The gang of tAvo cows and a palfrey on our Lady’s raeadoAV’,” 
ansAvered his brother officer. 

“ An ox-hide to make buskins of yearly, because of the bram- 
bles,” echoed the Kitchener. 

“ And various other perquisites, qtice nunc ^orcescrihere longum ” 
said the Abbot, summing, Avith his OAvn lordly voice, the advan- 
tages attached to the office of conventual boAv-bearer. 

Dame Glendinning AA^as all this Avhile on her knees, her head 
mechanically turning from the one church-officer to the other, 
Avhich, as they stood one on each side of her, had much the 
appearance of a figure moved by clock-Avork, and so soon as they 
were silent, most devoutly did she kiss the munificent hand of 
the Abbot. Conscious, hoAveA^er, of Halbert’s intractability in 
some points, she could not help qu.alifying her grateful and reiter- 
ated thanks for the Abbot’s bountiful proffer, Avith a hope that 
Halbert Avould see his Avisdom, and accept of it. 

“ Hoaa',” said the Abbot, bending his broAA’S, “ accept of it ? — 
Woman, is thy son in his right wits ?” 

Elspeth, stunned by the tone in Avhich this question was asked, 
was altogether unable to reply to it. Indeed, any ansAver she 
might have made could hardly have been heard, as it pleased the 
tAvo office-bearers of the Abbot’s table again to recommence their 
alternate dialogue. 

“ Refuse !” said the Kitchener. 

‘‘ Refuse !” ansAvered the Refectioner, echoing the other’s word 
in a tone of still louder astonishment. 

“ Refuse four marks by the year !” said the ona I 


THE JMONASTEIIY. 


186 


“ Alo and beer — broth and mutton— cow's-grass and palfrey’s !” 
shouted the Kitchener. 

“ Gown and galligaskins !” responded the Refectioner. 

“ A moment’s patience, my brethren,” answered the Sub-Prior, 

and let us not be thus astonished before cause is afforded of our 
amazement. This good dame best knoweth the temper and spirit 
of her son — this much I can say, that it lieth not towards letters 
or learning, of which I have in vain endeavoured to instil into him 
some tincture.. Nevertheless, he is a youth of no common spirit, 
but much like those (in my w'eak judgment) whom God raises 
up among a people when he meaneth that their deliverance shall 
be wrought out with strength of hand and valour of heart. Such 
men we have seen marked by a waywardness, and even an obsti- 
nacy of character, which hath appeared intractability and stupidity 
to those among whom they walked and were conversant, until the 
very opportunity hath arrived in which it was the will of Provi- 
dence that they should be the fitting instrument of great things.” 

“ Now, in good time hast thou spoken. Father Eustace,” said 
the Abbot ; “ and we will see this swankie before we decide upon 
the means of employing him. — How say you. Sir Piercie Shafton, 
is it not the court fashion to suit the man to the office, and not 
the office to the man 1 ” 

So please your reverence and lordship,” answered the Nor- 
thumbrian knight, “ I do partly, that is, in some sort, subscribe 
to what your wisdom hath delivei’ed — Nevertheless, under reve- 
rence of the Sub-Prior, we do not look for gallant leaders and 
national deliverers in the hovels of the mean common people. 
Credit me, that if there be some flashes of martial spirit about this 
young person, which I am not called upon to dispute, (though I 
have seldom seen that pi’esumption and arrogance were made 
good upon the upshot by deed and action,) yet still these will prove 
insufficient to distinguish him, save in his own limited and lowly 
sphere — even as the glowworm, which makes a goodly show 
among the grass of the field, would be of little avail if deposited 
in a beacon-grate.” 

“ Now, in good time,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and here comes the 
young huntsman to speak for himself ;” for, being placed opposite 
to the window, he could observe Halbert as he ascended the little 
mound on which the tower was situated. 

“ Summon him to our presence,” said the Lord Abbot ; and with 
an obedient start the two attendant monks went off with emulous 
alertness. Dame Glendinning sprung away at the same moment, 
partly to gain an instant to recommend obedience to her son, 
jiartly to prevail with him to change his apparel before coming in 
presence of the Abbot. But the Kitchener and Refectioner, both 
speaking at once, had already seized each an arm, and were lead- 
ing Halbert in triumph into the apartment, so that she could only 
ejaculate, “ His will be done ; but an he had but had on him hia 
Sunday’s hose !” 


THE MONASTERY. 


18 C^ 

Limited and humble as this desire was, the fates did not gran*, 
it, for Halbert Glendinning was hurried into the presence of the 
Lord Abbot and his party without a word of explanation, and 
without a moment’s time being allowed to assume his holiday 
hose, which, in the language of the time, implied both breeches 
and stockings. 

Yet though thus suddenly presented amid the centre of all eyes, 
there was something in Halbert’s appeai’ance which commanded 
a certain degree of respect frt#n the company into which he was 
so unceremoniously intruded, and the greater part of whom were 
disposed to consider him with hauteur, if not with absolute con- 
tempt. But his appearance and reception we must devote to 
another chapter. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and honour 
There lies the pelf, in sum to hear thee through 
The dance of youth, and the turmoil of manhood, 

Yet leave enough for age’s chimney-corner ; 

Ihit an thou grasp to it, farewell ambition. 

Farewell each hope of bettering thy condition, 

And raising thy low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread. 

Old Flap. 

It is necessary to dwell for some brief space on the appearance 
and demeanour of young Glendinning, ere we proceed to describe 
his interview with the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, at this momentous 
crisis of his life. 

Halbert was now about nineteen years old, tall and active 
rather than strong, yet of that hardy conformation of limb and 
sinew, which promises great strength when the growth shall be 
complete, and the system confirmed. He was perfectly well 
made, and like most men who have that advantage, possessed a 
grace and natural ease of manner and carriage, which prevented 
his height from being the distinguished part of his external 
appearance. It was not until you had compared liis stature with 
that of those amongst or near to whom he stood, that you became 
sensible that the young Glendinning was upwards of six feet high. 
In the combination of unusual height with perfect symmetry, ease, 
and grace of carriage, the young heir of Glendearg, notwithstand- 
ing his rustic birth and education, had greatly the advantage 
even of Sir Piercie Shafton himself, whose stature was lower, and 
his limbs, though there was no particular ])oint to object to, were 
on the whole less exactly proportioned. On the other hand. Sir 
Piercie’s very handsome countenance afforded him as decided 
an advantage over the Scotsman, as regularity of features and 
brilliance of complexion could give over traits which were rather 


THE MONASTERY. 


187 

strongly marked than beautiful, and upon whose complexion the 
“skyey influences,” to which he was constantly exposed, had 
blended the red and white into the purely nut-brown hue, which 
coloured alike cheeks, neck, and forehead, and blushed only in a 
darker glow upon the former. — Halbert’s eyes supplied a marked 
and distinguished part of his physiognomy. They were large 
and of a hazel colour, and sparkled in moments of animation 
with such uncommon brilliancy, that it seemed as if they actually 
emitted light. Nature had closely curled the locks of dark-brown 
hair, which relieved and set off the features, such as we have de- 
scribed them, displaying a bold and animated disposition, much 
more than might have been expected from his situation, or from 
his previous manners, which hitherto had seemed bashful, homely, 
and awkward. 

Halbert’s dress was certainly not of that description which sets 
off to the best advantage a presence of itself prepossessing. His 
jerkin and hose were of coarse rustic cloth, and his cap of the 
same. A belt round his waist served at once to sustain the broad- 
sword which we have already mentioned, and to hold five or six 
arrows and bird-bolts, which were stuck into it on the right side, 
along with a large knife hilted with buck-horn, or, as it was then 
called, a dudgeon-dagger. To complete his dress, we must 
notice his loose buskins of deer’s-hide, formed so as to draw up 
on the leg as high as the knee, or at pleasure to be thrust down 
lower than the calves. These were generally used at the period 
by such as either had their principal occupation, or their chief 
pleasure, in silvan sports, as tliey served to protect the legs against 
the rough and tangled thickets into which the pursuit of game fre- 
quently led them. — And these trifling particulars complete his 
external appearance. 

It is not so easy to do justice to the manner in which young 
Glendinniug’s soul spoke through his eyes when ushered so sud- 
denly into the company of those whom his earliest education had 
taught him to treat with awe and reverence. The degree of 
embarrassment, which his demeanour evinced, had nothing in it 
either meanly servile, or utterly disconcerted. It was no more 
than became a generous and ingenuous youth of a bold spirit, but 
totally inexperienced, who should for '.he fii*st time be called upon 
to think and act for himself in such society, and under such dis- 
advantageous circumstances. There was not in his carriage a 
grain either of forwardness or of timidity, which a friend could 
have wished away. 

He kneeled and kissed the Abbot’s hand, then rose, and retiring 
t wo paces, bowed respectfully to the circle around, smiling gently 
as he received an encouraging nod from the Sub-Prior, to whom 
alone he was personally known, and blushing as he encountered 
tlie anxious look of Mary Avenel, who beheld with painful inte- 
rest the sort of ordeal to which her foster-brother was about to be 
subjected. Recovering from the transient flurry of spirits into 


THE MONASTERY. 


:8S 

which the encounter of her glance had thrown him, he stood com* 
posedly awaiting till the Al)bot should express his pleasure. 

The ingenuous expression of countenance, nolde form, and 
gi'aceful attitude of the young man, failed not to prepossess in his 
favour the churchmen in whose presence he stood. The Abbot 
looked round, and exchanged a gracious and approving glance 
with his counsellor Father Eustace, although probably the ap- 
pointment of a ranger, or bow-bearer, was one in wdiich he 
might have been disposed to proceed without the Sub-Prior’s 
advice, were it but to shew his own free agency. But the good 
mien of the young man now in nomination was such, that he 
rather hastened to exchange congratulation on meeting with so 
proper a subject of promotion, than to indulge any other feeling. 
Father Eustace enjoyed the pleasure which a well-constituted 
mind derives from seeing a benefit light on a deserving object ; 
for as he had not seen Halbert since circumstances had made so 
material a change in his manner and feelings, he scarce doubted 
that the preferred appointment would, notwithstanding his 
mother’s uncertainty, suit the disposition of a youth Avho had 
appeared devoted to woodland sports, and a foe alike to seden- 
tary or settled occupation of any kind. The Refectioner and 
Kitchener were so well pleased with Halbert’s prepossessing 
appearance, that they seemed to think that the salary, emolu- 
ments, and perquisites, the dole, the grazing, the gown, and the 
galligaskins, could scarce be better bestowed than on the active 
and graceful figure before them. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whether from being more deeply engaged 
in his ow’n cogitations, or that the subject was unworthy of his 
notice, did not seem to partake of the general feeling of approba- 
tion excited by the young man’s presence. He sate with his 
eyes half shut, and his arms folded, appearing to be wrapped in 
contemplations of a nature deeper than those arising out of the 
scene before him. But, notwithstanding his seeming abstraction 
and absence of mind, there was a flutter of vanity in Sir Piercie’s 
very handsome countenance, an occasional change of posture 
from one striking attitude (or what he conceived to be such) to 
another, and an occasional stolen glance at the female part of the 
company, to spy how far he succeeded in riveting their attention, 
which gave a marked advantage, in comparison, to the less regu- 
lar and more harsh features of Halbert Glendinning, wdth their 
composed, manly, and deliberate expression of mental fortitude. 

Of the females belonging to the family of Glendearg, the 
Miller’s daughter alone liad her mind sufficiently at leisure to 
admire, from time to time, the graceful attitudes of Sir Piercie 
Shafton ; for both Mary Avenel and Dame Glendinning were 
waiting in anxiety and apprehension the answer which Halbert 
was to return to the Abbot’s proposal, and fearfully anticipating 
the consequences of his probable refusal. The conduct of his 
brother Edward, for a lad constitutionally shy, respectful, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


1S9 


even timid, was at once affectionate and noble. This younger 
son of Dame Elspeth had stood unnoticed in a corner, after the 
Abbot, at the request of the Sub-Prior, had honoured him with 
some passing notice, and asked him a few commonplace questions 
about his progress in Donatus, and in the Promptuarium Parvu- 
lurum, without waiting for the answers. From his corner he 
now glided round to his brother’s side, and keeping a little 
behind him, slid his right hand into the huntsman’s left, and by 
a gentle pressure, which Halbert instantly and ardently returned, 
expressed at once his interest in his situation, and his resolution 
to share his fate. 

The group was thus arranged, when, after the pause of two or 
three minutes, which he employed in slowly sipping his cup of 
wine, in order that he might enter on his proposal with due and 
deliberate dignity, the Abbot at length expressed himself thus : — • 

“ My son — we your lawful Superior, and the Abbot, under 
God’s favour, of the community of Saint Mary's, have heard of 
your manifold good gifts — a-hem — especially touching wood- 
craft — and the huntsman -like fashion in which you strike your 
game, truly and as a yeoman should, not abusing Heaven’s good 
benefits by spoiling the flesh, as is too often seen in careless 
rangers — a-hem.” He made here a pause, but observing that 
Glendinning only replied to his compliment by a bow, he pro- 
ceeded, — “ My son, we commend your modesty; nevertheless, we 
will that thou shouldst speak freely to us touching that which wo 
have premeditated for thine advancement, meaning to confer on 
thee the office of bow-bearer and ranger, as well over the chases 
and forests wherein our house hath privilege by the gifts of pious 
kings and nobles, whose souls now enjoy the fruits of their boun- 
ties to the church, as to those which belong to us in exclusive, 
right of property and perpetuity. Thy knee, my son — that we 
may, with our own hand, and without loss of time, induct thee 
into office.” 

“ Kneel down,” said the Kitchener on the one side; and “ Kneel 
down,” said the Refectioner on the other. 

But Halbert Glendinning remained standing. 

“ Were it to shew gratitude and good-will for your reverend 
lordship’s noble offer, I could not,” he said, “ kneel low enough, 
or remain long enough kneeling. But I may not kneel to take 
investiture of your noble gift, my lord Abbot, being a man deter- 
mined to seek my fortune otherwise.” 

“ How is that, sir ?” said the Abbot, knitting his brows ; do 
I hear you speak aright 1 and do you, a born vassal of the Hali- 
dome, at the moment when I am destining to you such a noble 
expresson of my good-will, propose exchanging my service for 
that of any other ?” 

‘‘ My lord,” said Halbert Glendinning, “ it grieves me to think 
you hold me capable of undervaluing your gracious offer, or of 
exchanging your service for another. But your noble proffer 


190 THE MONASTERY. 

doth but hasten the execution of a detei'mination which I liavo 
long since formed.” 

“ Ay, my son,” said the Abbot, “is it indeed so ’-—right early 
have you learned to form resolutions without consulting those on 
whom you naturally depend. But what may it be, this sagacious 
resolution, if I may so far pray you 1” 

“ To yield up to my brother and mother,” answered Halbert, 
“ mine interest in the fief of Glendearg, lately possessed by my 
father, Simon Glendinning : and having prayed your lordship to 
be the same kind and generous master to them, that your prede- 
cessors, the venerable Abbots of Saint Mary’s, have been to my 
fathers in time past ; for myself, I am determined to seek my 
fortune where I may best find it.” 

Dame Glendinning here ventured, imboldened by maternal 
anxiety, to break silence with an exclamation of “ O my son !” 
Edward, clinging to his brother’s side, half spoke, half whispered, 
a similar ejaculation, of “ Brother ! brother !” 

The Sub-Prior took up the matter in a tone of grave reprehen- 
sion, which, as he conceived, the interest he had always taken in 
the family of Glendearg required at his hand. 

“ Wilful young man,” he said, “ what folly can urge thee to 
push back the hand that is stretched out to aid thee ? What 
visionary aim hast tiiou before thee, that can compensate for the 
decent and sufficient independence which thou art now rejecting 
with scorn 

“ Four marks by the year, duly and truly,” said the Kitchener. 

“ Cow’s-grass, doublet, and galligaskins,” responded the Refec- 
tioner. 

“ Peace, my brethren,” said the Sub-Prior ; and may it 
please your lordship, venerable father, upon my petition, to allow 
this headstrong youth a day for consideration, and it shall be my 
part so to indoctrinate him, as to convince him what is due on 
this occasion to your lordship, and to his family, and to himself.” 

“ Your kindness, reverend father,” said the youth, “ craves my 
dearest thanks — it is the continuance of a long train of benevo- 
lence towards me, for which I give you my gratitude, for I have 
nothing else to offer. It is my mishap, not your fault, that your 
intentions have been frustrated. But my present resolution is 
fixed and unalterable. I cannot accept the generous offer of the 
Lord Abbot ; my fate calls me elsewhere, to scenes where I shall 
end it or mend it.” 

“ By our Lady,” said the Abbot, “ I think the youth be mad 
indeed — or that you. Sir Piercie, judged of him most truly, when 
you prophesied that he w'ould prove unfit for the promotion we 
designed him — it may be you knew’ something of this w^ayward 
humour before ?” 

“ By the mass, not I,” answ'ered Sir Piercie Shafton, with his 
usual indifference. “ I but judged of him by his birth and breed- 
ing ; for seldom doth a good hawk come cut of a kite’s egg.” 


THE MONASTERY. 191 

“ Thou art thyself a kite, and kestrel to boot,” replied Halbert 
Glendinning, without a moment’s hesitation. 

This in our presence, and to a man of worship 1” said the 
Abbot, the blood rushing to his face. 

“ Yes, my lord,” answered the youth ; “ even in your presence 
I return to this gay man’s face, the causeless dishonour which he 
has flung on my name. My brave father, who fell in the cause of 
his country, demands that justice at the hands of his son !” 

“ Unmannered boy !” said the Abbot. 

“ Nay, my good lord,” said the knight, “ praying pardon for 
the coarse interruption, let me entreat you not to be wroth with 
this rustical — Credit me, the north wind shall as soon puff one of 
your rocks from its basis, as aught which I hold so slight and 
inconsiderate as the churlish speech of an untaught churf, shall 
move the spleen of Piercie Shafton.” 

“ Proud as you are. Sir Knight,” said Halbert, “ in your ima- 
gined superiority, be not too confident that you cannot be moved.” 

Faith, by nothing that thou canst urge,” said Sir Piercie. 

“ Knowest thou then this token ?” said young Glendinning, 
offering to him the silver bodkin which he had received from the 
White Lady. 

Never was such an instant change, from the most contemptuous 
serenity, to the most furious state of passion, as that which Sir 
Piercie Shafton exhibited. It was the difference between a can- 
non lying quiet in its embrasure, and the same gun when touched 
by the linstock. He started up, every limb quivering with rage, 
and his features so inflamed and agitated by passion, that he more 
resembled a demoniac, than a man under the regulation of reason. 
He clenched both his fists, and thrusting them forward, offered 
them furiously at the face of Glendinning, who Avas even himselt 
startled at the frantic state of excitation which his action had 
occasioned. The next moment he withdrew them, struck his open 
palm against his own forehead, and rushed out of the room in a 
state of indescribable agitation. The Avhole matter had been so 
sudden, that no person present had time to interfere. 

When Sir Piercie Shafton had left the apartment, there was a 
moment’s pause of astonishment ; and then a general demand that 
Halbert Glendinning should instantly explain by Avhat means he 
had produced such a violent change in the deportment of the 
English cavalier. 

“ I did nought to him,” answered Halbert Glendinning, “ but 
what you all saw — am I to answer for his fantastic freaks of 
humour ?” 

“Boy,” said the Abbot, in his most authoritative manner, 
“ these subterfuges shall not avail thee. This is not a man to be 
di’iven from his temperament without some sufficient cause. That 
cause was given by thee, and must have been known to thee. I 
command thee, as thou wilt save thyself from worse measure, to ex- 
plain to me by what means thou hast moved our finend thus— W'* 


THE MONASTERY. 


192 

choose not that our vassals shall drive our guests mad in our very 
presence, and wc remain ignorant of the means whereby tliat 
purpose is effected.” 

“ So may it please your reverence, I did but shew him this 
token,” said Halbert Glendinning, delivering it at the same time 
to the Abbot, who looked at it with much attention, and then, 
shaking his head, gravely delivered it to the Sub-Prior, without 
speaking a word. 

Father Eustace looked at the mysterious token with some 
attention ; and then addressing Halbert in a stern and severe 
voice, said, “ Young man, if thou wouldst not have us suspect thee 
of some strange double-dealing in this matter, let us instantly 
know whence thou hadst this token, and how it possesses an influ- 
ence on Sir Piercie Shafton ?” — It would have been extremely 
difficult for Halbert, thus hard pressed, to have either evaded or 
answered so puzzling a question. To have avowed the truth 
might, in those times, have occasioned his being burnt at a stake, 
although, in ours, his confession would have only gained for him 
the credit of a liar beyond all rational credibility. He was fortu- 
nately relieved by the return of Sir Piercie Sliafton himself, whose 
ear caught, as he entei-ed, the sound of the Sub-Prior’s question. 

Without waiting until Halbert Glendinning replied, he came 
forward, whispering to him as he passed, “ Be secret — thou shalt 
have the satisfaction thou hast dared to seek for.” 

When he returned to his place, there were still marks of dis- 
composure on his brow ; but, becoming apparently collected and 
calm, he looked around him, and apologized for the indecorum of 
which he had been guilty, which he ascribed to sudden and severe 
indisposition. All were silent, and looked on each other with 
some surprise. 

The Lord Abbot gave orders for all to retii’e from the apart- 
ment, save himself. Sir Piercie Shafton, and the Sub-Prior. “ And 
have an eye,” he added, “ on that bold youth, that he escape not ; 
for if he hath practised by charm, or otherwise, on the health of 
our worshipful guest, I swear by the alb and mitre which I wear, 
that his punishment shall be most exemplary.” 

“ My lord and venerable father,” said Halbert, bowing respect- 
fully, “ fear not but that I will abide my doom. I think you 
will best learn from the worshipful knight himself, what is the 
cause of his distemperature, and how slight my share in it has 
been.” 

“ Be assured,” said the knight, without looking up, however, 
while he spoke, “ I will satisfy the Lord Abbot.” 

With these words the company retired, and with them young 
Glendinning. 

When the Abbot, the Sub-Pidor, and the English knight were 
left alone, FatheY Eustace, contrary to his custom, could not help 
speaking the fii’st. “ Expound unto us, noble sir,” he said, ‘‘ b} 
what mysterious means the production of this simple toy could 


THE MONASTERY. 


193 


far move your spirit, and overcome your patience, after you liad 
shewn yourself proof to all the provocation oifered by this self- 
sufficient and singular youth ?” 

The luiight took the silver bodkin from the good father’s hand, 
looked at it with great composure, and, having examined it all 
over, returned it to the Sub-Prior, saying at the same time, “ In 
truth, venerable father, I cannot but marvel, that the wisdom 
implied alike in your silver hairs, and in your eminent rank, 
should, like a babbling hound, (excuse the similitude,) open thus 
loudly on a false scent. I were, indeed, more slight to be moved 
than the leaves of the aspen-tree, which wag at the least breath of 
heaven, could I be touched by such a trifle as this, which in no 
way concerns me more than if the same quantity of silver were 
stricken into so many groats. Truth is, that from my youth 
upward, I have been subjected to such a malady as you saw me 
visited with even now — a cruel and searching pain, which goeth 
through nerve and bone, even as a good brand in the hands of a 
brave soldier sheers through limb and sinew — but it passes away 
speedily, as you yourselves may judge.” 

“ Still,” said the Sub-Prior, “ this will not account for the youth 
offering to you this piece of silver, as a token by which you were 
to understand soroething, and, as we must needs conjecture, 
something disagreeable.” 

‘‘ Your reverence is to conjecture what you will,” said Sir 
Piercie ; “ but I cannot pretend to lay your judgment on the right 
scent when I see it at fault. I hope I am not liable to be called 
upon to account for the foolish actions of a malapert boy V’ 

“Assuredly,” said the Sub-Prior, “we shall prosecute no 
inquiry which is disagreeable to our guest. Nevertheless,” said 
he, looking to his Superior, “ this chance may, in some sort, alter 
the plan your lordship had formed for your worshipful guest’s 
residence for a brief term in this tower, as a place alike of secrecy 
and of security ; both of which, in the terms which we now stand 
on with England, are circumstances to be desired.” 

“ In truth,” said the Abbot, “ and the doubt is well thought on, 
were it as well removed ; for I scarce know in the Halidome so 
fitting a place of refuge, yet see I not how to recommend it to our 
worshipful guest, considering the unrestrained petulance of this 
headstrong youth.” 

“ Tush ! reverend sirs, — what would you make of me ?” said 
Sir Piercie Shafton. “ I protest, by mine honour, I would abide 
in this house were I to choose. What ! I take no exceptions at 
the youth for shewing a flash of spirit, though the spark may light 
on mine own head. I honour the lad for it. I protest I will 
abide here, and he shall aid me in striking down a deer. I must 
needs be friends with him, an he be such a shot : and we -will 
speedily send down to my lord Abbot a buck of the first head, 
killed so artificially as shall satisfy even the reverend Kitchener.” 

X. N 


THE MONASTERY. 


194 

This was said with such apparent ease and good-humour, that 
the Abbot made no farther observation on what had passed, but 
proceeded to acquaint his guest with the details of fui'niture, 
hangings, provisions, and so forth, which he proposed to send up 
to the Tower of Glendearg for his accommodation. This dis- 
course, seasoned with a cup or two of wine, served to prolong the 
time until the reverend Abbot ordered his cavalcade to prepare 
for their return to the Monastery. 

“ As we have,” he said, “ in the course of this our toilsome 
journey, lost our meridian, * indulgence shall be given to those 
of our attendants who shall, from very weariness, be unable to 
attend the duty at prime, + and this by way of misericord or 
indulgentia.’’^ J 

Having benevolently intimated a boon to his faithful followers, 
which he probably judged would be far from unacceptable, the 
good Abbot, seeing all ready for his journey, bestowed his bless- 
ing on the assembled household — gave his hand to be kissed by 
Dame Glendinning — himself kissed the cheek of Mary Avenel, 
and even of the Miller’s maiden, when they approached to render 
him the same homage — commanded Halbert to rule his temper, 
and to be aiding and obedient in all things to the English Knight 
— admonished Edward to be discipulus impiger atque strenuus — 
then took a courteous farewell of Sir Piercie Shafton, ad%dsing him 
to lie close, for fear of the English borderers, who might be 
employed to Iddnap him ; and having discharged these various 
offices of courtesy, moved forth to the com’t-yard, followed by the 
whole establishment. Here, wth a heavy sigh approaching to a 
groan, the venerable father heaved himself upon his palfrey, 
whose dark purple housings swept the ground ; and, greatly 
comforted that the discretion of the animal’s pace would be no 
longer disturbed by the gambadoes of Sir Piercie and his prancing 
war-horse, he set forth at a sober and steady trot upon his return 
to the Monastery. 

When the Sub-Prior had mounted to accompany his principal, 
his eye sought out Halbert, who, partly hidden by a projection of 
the outward wall of the court, stood apart from, and gazing upon 
the departing cavalcade, and the group which assembled around 
them. Unsatisfied with the explanation he had received concern- 
ing the mysterious transaction of the silver bodkin, yet interesting 
himself in the youth, of whose character he had formed a favour- 
able idea, the worthy monk resolved to take an early opportunity 
of investigating that matter. In the meanwhile, he looked upon 
Halbert with a serious and warning aspect, and held up his finger 

* The hour of repose at noon, which, in the middle ages, was employed in 
slumber, and which the monastic rule* of nocturnal vigils rendered necessary. 

. f Prime was the midnight service cf the monks. 

i Misericord, according to the learned work of Fosbrooke on British Mona- 
cliism, meant not only an indulgence, or exoneration from particular duties, but 
also a particular apartment in a convent, where the monks assembled to enjoy 
Buch indulgences or allowances as were gnmted beyond the rule. 


THE MONASTERY. 195 

to him as he signed farewell. He then joined the rest of the 
churchmen, and followed his Superior down the valley. 


CHAPTER XX. 

I hope you ’ll give me cause tp think you noble, 

And do me right with your sWord, sir, as becomes 
One gentleman of honour to another ; 

All this is fair, sir — let us make no days on’t. 

I’ll lead your way. 

^ Love's niijrimage. 

The look and sign of warning which the Sub-Prior gave to 
Halbert Glendinning as they parted, went to his heart ; for 
although he had profited much less than Pldward by the good 
man’s instructions, he had a sincere reverence for his person ; 
and even the short time he had for deliberation tended to sliew him 
he was embarked in a perilous adventure. The nature of the 
provocation which he had given to Sir Picrcie Shafton he could 
not even conjecture ; but he saw that it was of a mortal quality, 
and he was now to abide the consequences. 

That he might not force these consequences forward by any 
premature renewal of their quarrel, he resolved to walk apart for 
an hour, and consider on what terms he was to meet this haughty 
foreigner. The time seemed propitious for his doing so without 
having the appearance of wilfiilly shunning the stranger, as all 
the members of the little diousehold were dispersing either to per- 
form such tasks as had been interrupted by the arrival of the 
dignitaries, or to put in order what had been deranged by their 
visit. 

Leaving the tower, therefore, and descending, unobserved as he 
thought, the knoll on which it stood. Halbert gained the little 
piece of level ground which extended betwixt the descent of the 
liill, and the first sweep made by the brook after washing the foot 
of the eminence on which the tower was situated, where a few 
straggling birch and oak-trees served to secure him from obser- 
vation. But scarcely had he reached the spot, when he was 
surprised to feel a smart tap upon the shoulder, and, turning 
around, he perceived he had been closely followed by Sir Piercie 
Shafton. 

When, whether from our state of animal spirits, want of confi- 
dence in tlie justice of our cause, or any other motive, our own 
courage happens to be in a wavering condition, nothing tends so 
much altogetlier to disconcert us, as a great appeai’ance of promp- 
titude on the part of our antagonist. Halbert Glendinning, both 
morally and constitutionally intrepid, was nevertheless somewhat 
troubled at seeing the stranger, whose resentment he had pro- 
voked, appear at once before him, and with an aspect which boded 
hostility. But though his heart might beat somewhat tliickcr, he 


THE MONASTERY. 


196 

was too high-spirited to exhibit any external signs of emotion.^ — 
What is your pleasure, Sir Piercie ?” he said to the English 
knight, enduring without apparent discomposure all the terrors 
which his antagonist had summoned into his aspect. 

“ What is my pleasure ?” answered Sir Piercie ; “ a goodly 
question after the part you have acted towards me ! — Young 
man, I know not what infatuation has led thee to place thyself in 
direct and insolent opposition to one who is a guest of thy liege- 
lord the Abbot, and who, even from the courtesy due to thy 
mother’s roof, had a right to remain there without meeting insult. 
Neither do I ask, or care, by what means thou hast become pos- 
sessed of the fatal secret by which thou hast dared to offer me 
open shame. But I must now tell thee, that the possession of it 
hath cost thee thy life.” 

“ Not, I trust, if my hand and sword can defend it,” replied 
Halbert, boldly. 

“ True,” said the Englishman, I mean not to deprive thee of 
thy fair chance of self-defence. I am only sorry to think, that, 
yovmg and country-bred as thou art, it can but little avail thee. 
But thou must be well aware, that in this quarrel I shall use no 
terms of quarter.” 

“ Rely on it, proud man,” answered the youth, that I shall 
ask none ; and although thou speakest as if I lay already at thy 
feet, trust me, that as I am determined never to ask thy mercy, 
so I am not fearful of needing it.” 

“ Thou wilt, then,” said the knight, do nothing to avert the 
certain fate which thou hast provoked with such wantouness ?” 

“ And how were that to be purchased ?” replied Halbert Glen- 
dinning, more with the wish of obtaining some farther insight into 
the terms on which he stood with this stranger, than to make him 
the submission which he might require. 

“ Explain to me instantly,” said Sir Piercie, “ without equivo- 
cation or delay, by what means thou wert enabled to wound my 
honour so deeply — and shouldst thou point out to me by so 
doing an enemy more worthy of my resentment, I will permit 
thine own obscure insignificance to draw a veil over thine inso- 
lence.” 

“ This is too high a flight,” said Glendinning, fiercely, “ for 
thine own presumption to soar without being checked. Thou 
hast come to my father’s house, as well as I can guess, a fugitive 
and an exile, and thy first greeting to its inhabitants has been 
that of contempt and injury. By what means I have been able 
to retort that contempt, let thine own conscience tell thee. 
Enough for me that I stand on the privilege of a free Scotchman, 
and will brook no insult unreturned, and no injury unrequited.” 

“ It is well, then,” said Sir Piercie Shafton ; “ we will dispute 
this matter to-morrow morning with our swords. Let the time 
be daybreak, and do thou assign the place. We will go forth as 
if to strilce a deer.” 


THE MONASTEllY. 


■ 107 

“ Content,” replied Halbert Glendinning : “ I will guide thee to 
a spot where an hundred men might fight and fall without any 
chance of interruption.” 

“ It is well,” answei’ed Sir Piercie Shafton. “ Here then we 
part. — Many will say, that in thus indulging the right of a gentle- 
man to the son of a clod-breaking peasant, I derogate from my 
sphere, even as the blessed sun would derogate should he conde- 
scend to compare and match his golden beams with the twinkle of 
a pale, blinking, expiring, gross-fed taper. But no considera- 
tion of rank shall prevent my avenging the insult thou hast offered 
me. We bear a smooth face, observe me. Sir Villagio, before the 
worshipful inmates of yonder cabin, and to-morrow we try con- 
clusions with our swords.” So saying, he turned away towards the 
tower. 

It may not be unworthy of notice, that in the last speech only, 
had Sir Piercie used some of those flowers of rhetoric whicli 
characterized the usual style of his convei’sation. Apparently, a 
sense of wounded honour, and the deep desire of vindicating his 
injured feelings, had proved too strong for the fantastic affectation 
of his acquired habits. Indeed, such is usually the influence of 
energy of mind, when called forth and exerted, that Sir Piercie 
Shafton had never appeared in the eyes of his youthful antagonist 
half so much deserving of esteem and respect as in this brief 
dialogue, by which they exchanged mutual defiance. As he 
followed him slowly to the tower, he could not help thinking to 
himself, that, had the English knight always displayed this supe- 
rior tone of bearing and feeling, he would not probably have felt 
so earnestly disposed to take offence at his hand. Mortal offence, 
however, had been exchanged, and the matter was to be put to 
mortal arbitrement. 

The family met at the evening meal, when Sir Piercie Shafton 
extended the benignity of his countenance and the graces of his 
conversation far more generally over the party than he had 
hitherto condescended to do. The greater part of his attention 
was, of course, still engrossed by his divine and inimitable Dis- 
cretion, as he chose to term Mary Avenel ; but, nevertheless, 
there were interjectional flourishes to the Maid of the Mill, under 
the title of Comely Damsel, and to the Dame, under that of 
Worthy Matron. Nay, lest he should fail to excite their admira- 
tion by the graces of his rhetoric, he generously, and without 
solicitation, added those of his voice; and after regretting bitterly 
the absence of his viol-de-gamba, he regaled them with a song, 
“ which,” said he, “ the inimitable Astrophel, whom mortals call 
Philip Sidney, composed in the nonage of his muse, to shew the 
world what they are to expect from his riper years, and which 
will one day see the light in that not-to-be-paralleled perfection 
of human wit, which he has addressed to his sister, the matchless 
Parthenope, whom men cail Countess of Pem.broke ; a work,” ho 
continued, “ whereof liis friendship hath permitted me, though 


THE MONASTERY. 


198 

cnwortliy, to be an occasional partaker, and whereof I may well 
say, that the deep afflictive tale which aw^akeneth our sorrows, is 
so relieved with brilliant similitudes, dulcet descriptions, pleasant 
poems, and engaging interludes, that they seem as the stars of 
llie firmament, beautifying the dusky robe of night. And though 
1 wot well how much the lovely and quaint language will suffer 
by my widowed voice, widowed in that it is no longer matched 
by my beloved viol-de-gamba, I will essay to give you a taste of 
tlie ravishing sweetness of the poesy of the un-to-be-imitated 
Astrophel.” 

So saying, he sung without mercy or remorse about five hun- 
dred verses, of which the two first and the fom’ last may suffice 
for a specimen — 

What tongue can her perfections tell, 

On whose each part all pens may dwell. 

« « » * « 

Of whose high praise and praiseful bliss, 

Goodness the pen. Heaven paper is; 

The ink immortal fame doth send, 

As I began so I must end. 

As Sir Piercie Shafton always sung with his eyes half shut, it 
was not until, agreeably to the promise of poetry, he had fairly 
made an end, that looking round, he discovered that the greater 
part of his audience had, in the meanwhile, yielded to the charms 
of repose. Mary Avenel, indeed, from a natural sense of polite- 
ness, had contrived to keep awake through all the prolixities of the 
divine Astrophel ; but Mysie was transported in dreams back to 
the dusty atmosphere of her father’s mill. Edward himself, who 
bad given his attention for some time, had at length fallen fast 
asleep ; and the good dame’s nose, could its tones have been put 
under regulation, might have supplied the bass of the lamented 
viol-de-gamba. Halbert, however, who had no temptation to give 
way to the charms of slumber, remained awake with his eyes 
fixed on the songster; not that he was better entertained with the 
words, or moi’e ravished with the execution, than the rest of the 
company, but rather because he admired, or perhaps envied, the 
composm'e, which could thus spend the evening in interminable 
madrigals, when the next morning was to be devoted to deadly 
combat. Yet it struck his natural acuteness of observation, that 
the eye of the gallant cavalier did now and then, furtively as it 
were, seek a glance of his countenance, as if to discover how he 
was taking the exhibition of his antagonist’s composure and 
serenity of mind. 

lie shall read nothing in my countenance, thought Halbert, 
proudly, that can make him think my indifference less than his own. 

And taking from the shelf a bag full of miscellaneous matters 
collected for the purpose, he began wdth great industry to dress 
liooks, and had finished half-a-dozen of flies (we are enabled, for 
the benefit of those who admire the antiquities of tlie gentle ai't 
of angling, to state that they were brown hackles) by the time 


THE MONASTERY. 


190 


4 

that Sir Piercie had arrived at the conclusion of his long-winded 
strophes of the divine Astrophel. So that he also testified a 
magnanimous contempt of that which to-morrow should bring 
forth. 

As it now waxed late, the family of Glendearg separated for the 
evening; Sir Piercie first saying to the dame that ‘^her son 
Albert ” 

“ Halbert,” said Elspeth, with emphasis, “ Halbert, after his 
goodsire. Halbert Brydone.” 

“ Well, then, I have prayed your son. Halbert, that we may 
strive to-morrow, witli the sun’s earliness, to wake a stag from 
his lair, that I may see whether he be as prompt at that sport as 
fame bespeaks him.” 

“ Alas ! sir,” answered Dame Elspeth, “ he is but too prompt, 
an you talk of promptitude, at any thing that has steel at one end 
of it, and mischief at the other. But he is at your honourable 
disposal, and I trust you will teach him how obedience is due to 
our venerable father and lord, the Abbot, and prevail with him 
to take the bow-bearer’s place in fee; for, as the two worthy 
monks said, it will be a great help to a widow-woman.” 

“ Trust me, good dame,” replied Sir Piercie, “ it is my purpose 
so to indoctrinate him, touching his conduct and beai’ing towards 
his betters, that he shall not hghtly depart from the reverence 
due to them. — We meet, then, beneath the birch-ti*ees in the 
plain,” he said, looking to Halbert, “ so soon as the eye of day 
liath opened its lids.” — Halbert answered with a sign of acqui- 
esccixce, and the knight proceeded, “ And now, having wished to 
my fairest Discretion those pleasant dreams whicli wave their 
pinions around the couch of sleeping beauty, and to this comely 
damsel the bounties of Morpheus, and to all others the common 
good-night, I will crave you leave to depart to my place of rest, 
though I may say with the poet, 

‘ Ah rest ! — no rest but change of place and posture : 

Ah sleep!— no sleep but worn-out Nature’s swooning ; 

Ah bed ! — no bed but cushion fill’d with stones : 

Rest, sleep, nor bed, await not on an exile.’ ” 

With a delicate obeisance he left the room, evading Dame 
Glendinning, who hastened to assure him he would find his 
accommodations for repose much more agreeable than they had 
been the night before, there having been store of warm coverlets, 
and a soft feather-bed, sent up from the Abbey. But the good 
knight probably thought that the grace and effect of his exit would 
be diminished, if he were recalled from his heroics to discuss such 
sublunary and domestic topics, and therefore hastened away with- 
out waiting to hear her out. 

“ A pleasant gentleman,” said Dame Glendinning ; “ but I will 
warrant hun an humorous* — And sings a sweet song, though it 

* Humorous — full of whims — thus Shakspeare, “Humorous as winter.” — 
The vulgar word humorsome comes nearest to the meaning. 


200 


THE MONASTERY. 


IS somewhat of the longest. — Well, I make mine avow he is 
goodly company — I wonder when he will go away.” 

Having thus expressed her respect for her guest, not without 
intimation that she was heartily tired of his company, the good 
dame gave the signal for the family to disperse, and laid her 
injunctions on Halbert to attend Sir Piercie Shaftonat daybreak, 
as he required. 

When stretched on his pallet by his brother’s side. Halbert had 
no small cause to envy the sound sleep which instantly settled on 
the eyes of Edward, but refused him any share of its influence. 
He saw now too well what the spirit had darkly indicated, that, 
in granting the boon which he had asked so unadvisedly, she had 
contributed more to his harm than his good. He was now sen- 
sible, too late, of the various dangers and inconveniences with 
which his dearest friends were threatened, alike by his discom- 
fiture or his success in the approaching duel. If he fell, he might 
say personally, “ good-night all.” But it was not the less certain 
that he should leave a dreadful legacy of distress and embarrass- 
ment to his mother and family, — an anticipation which by no 
means tended to render the front of death, in itself a grisly object, 
more agreeable to his imagination. The vengeance of the Abbot, 
his conscience told him, was sure to descend on his mother and 
brother, or could only be averted by the generosity of the victor 
— And Mary Avenel — he should have shewn himself, if he suc- 
cumbed in the present combat, as inefficient in protecting her, as 
he had been unnecessarily active in bringing disaster on her, and 
on the house in which she had been protected from infancy. And 
to this view of the case were to be added all those embittered and 
anxious feelings with which the bravest men, even in a better or 
less doubtful quarrel, regard the issue of a dubious conflict, the 
first time when it has been their fate to engage in an affair of that 
nature. 

But however disconsolate the prospect seemed in the event of 
his being conquered. Halbert could expect from victory little 
more than the safety of his own life, and the gratification of his 
wounded pride. To his friends — to his mother and brother — 
especially to Mary Avenel — the consequences of his triumph 
Avould be more certain destruction than the contingency of his 
defeat and death. If the English knight survived, he might in 
courtesy extend his protection to them ; but if he fell, nothing 
was likely to screen them from the vindictive measures which the 
A bbot and convent would surely adopt against the violation of 
the peace of the Halidome, and the slaughter of a protected guest 
by one of their own vassals, within whose house they had lodged 
him for shelter. These thoughts, in which neither view of the 
case augured aught short of ruin to his family, and that ruin 
entirely brought on by his own rashness, were thorns in Halbert 
Glendinning’s pillow, and deprived his soul of peace and his eyes 
of slumber. 


THE MONASTERY. 


201 


There appeared no middle course, saving one which was marked 
by degradation, and which, even if he stooped to it, w'as by no 
means free of danger. He might indeed confess to the English 
knight the strange circumstances which led to his presenting him 
with that token which the White Lady (in her displeasure as it 
now seemed) had given him, that he might offer it to Sir Piercio 
Shafton. But to this avowal his pride could not stoop, and reason, 
who is wonderfully ready to be of counsel with pride on such occa- 
sions, offered many arguments to shew it would be useless as well 
as mean so far to degrade himself. “ If I tell a tale so wonderful,” 
thought he, “ shall I not either be stigmatized as a liar, or punished 
as a wizard ? — Were Sir Pier cie Shafton generous, noble, and bene- 
volent, as the champions of whom we hear in romance, I might 
indeed gain his ear, and, without demeaning myself, escape from 
the situation in which I am placed. But as he is, or at least 
seems to be, self-conceited, arrogant, vain, and presumptuous — 
I should but humble myself in vain — and I will not humble 
myself !” he said, starting out of bed, grasping to his broadsword, 
and brandishing it in the light of the moon, which streamed 
through the deep niche that served them as a window ; when, to 
his extreme surprise and terror, an airy form stood in the moon- 
light, but intercepted not the reflection on the floor. Dimly as it 
was expressed, the sound of the voice soon made him sensible he 
saw the White Lady. 

At no time had her presence seemed so terrific to him ; for 
when he had invoked her, it was with the expectation of the 
apparition, and the determination to abide the issue. But now 
she had come uncalled, and her presence impressed him with a 
sense of approaching misfortune, and with the hideous apprehen- 
sion that he had associated himself with a demon, over whose 
motions he had no control, and of whose powers and quality he 
had no certain knowledge. He remained, therefore, in mere terror, 
gazing on the apparition, which chanted or recited in cadence 
die following lines — 

“ lie wliose heart for vengeance sued. 

Must not shrink from shedding blood ; 

The knot that thou hast tied with word, 

Thou must loose by edge of sword.” 

“ Avaunt thee, false Spirit !” said Halbert Glendinning ; “ I 
have bought thy advice too dearly already — Begone in the name 
of God !” 

The Spirit laughed ; and the cold unnatui’al sound of her laugh- 
ter had something in it more fearful than the usual melancholy 
tones of her voice. She then replied, — 

“ You have summon’d me once — j'ouhave summon dme twice, 

And without e’er a summons I come to you thrice ; 

Unask’d for, unsued for, you came to my glen ; 

Unsued and unask’d I am with you again.” 

Halbert Glendinning gave way for a moment to terror, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


202 

called on his brother, Edward ! waken, waken, foi Oui Lady 6 
sake !” 

Edw'ard awaked accordingly, and asked what he wanted. 

“ Look out,” said Halbert, “ look up ! seest thou no one in the 
room ?” 

“ No, upon my good word,” said Edw'ard, looking out. 

“ What ! seest thou nothing in the moonshine upon the floor 
there ?” 

“No, nothing,” answered Edward, “save thyself resting on 
thy naked sword. 1 tell thee. Halbert, thou shouldst trust more 
to thy spiritual arms, and less to those of steel and iron. For this 
many a night hast thou started and moaned, and cried out of 
fighting, and of spectres, and of goblins — thy sleep hath not 
refreshed thee — thy w'aking hath been a dream. — Credit me, 
dear Halbert, say the Pater and Credo, resign thyself to the 
protection of God, and thou wilt sleep sound and w'ake in com- 
fort.” 

“ It may be,” said Halbert slowly, and having his eye still bent 
on tlae female form which to him seemed distinctly visible, — “ it 
may be — But tell me, dear Edward, seest thou no one on the 
chamber floor but me ?” 

“ No one,” answered Edward, raising himself on his elbow ; 
“ dear brother, lay aside thy weapon, say thy prayers, and lay 
thee down to rest.” 

While he thus spoke, the Spirit smiled at Halbert as if in scorn; 
her wan cheek faded in the wan moonlight even before the smile 
had passed away, and Halbert himself no longer beheld the vision 
to which he had so anxiously solicited his brother’s attention. 
“ May God preserve my wdts !” he said, as, laying aside his 
w'eapon, he again threw himself on his bed. 

“ Amen ! my dearest brothei*,” answ^ered Edw^ard ; “ but wo 
must not provoke that Heaven in our w'antonness wdiicli w'e 
invoke in our misery. — Be not angry wdth me, my dear brother 
— I know not why you have totally of late estranged yourself 
from me — It is true, I am neither so athletic in body, nor so 
alert in courage, as you have been from your infancy ; yet, till 
lately, you have not absolutely cast off my society — Believe me, 
I have w^ept in secret, though I forbore to intrude myself on 
your privacy. The time has been when you held me not so 
cheap ; and when, if I could not follow the game so closely, or 
mark it so truly as you, I could fill up our intervals of pastime 
with pleasant tales of the olden times, w hich I had read or heard, 
and w'hich excited even your attention as we sate and eat our 
provision by some pleasant spring — but now I have, though I 
know^ not wdiy, lost thy regard and affection. — Nay, toss not thy 
arms about thee thus wildly,” said the younger brother ; “ from 
thy strange dreams, I fear some touch of fever hath affected thy 
blood — let me draw closer around thee thy mantle.” 

“ Forbear,” said Halbert — “ your care is needless — your 


THE MONASTERY. 


203 

complaints are witliout reason — your fears on my account are in 
vain.” 

“ Nay, but hear me, brother,” said Edward. "Your speech 
in sleep, and now even your waking dreams, are of beings which 
belong not to this world, or to our race — Our good Father 
Eustace says, that howbeit we may not do well to receive all idle 
tides of goblins and spectres, yet there is warrant from holy 
Scripture to believe, that the fiends haunt waste and solitary 
places ; and that those who frequent such wildernesses alone, are 
the prey, or the sport, of these wandering demons. And there- 
fore, I pray thee, brother, let me go with you when you go next 
up the glen, where, as you well know, there be places of evil 
reputation — Thou carest not for my escort ; but. Halbert, such 
diingers are more safely encountered by the wise in judgment, 
than by the bold in bosom ; and though I have small cause to 
boast of my own wisdom, yet 1 have that which ariseth from the 
written knowledge of elder times.” 

There was a moment during this discourse, when Halbert had 
well-nigh come to the resolution of disburdening his own breast, 
by intrusting Edward with all that weighed upon it. But when 
his brother reminded him that this was the morning of a high 
holiday, and that, setting aside all other business or pleasure, he 
ought to go to the Monastery and shrive himself before Father 
Eustace, who would that day occupy the confessional, pride 
stepped in and confirmed his wavering resolution. " I will not 
avow,” he thought, " a tale so extraordinary, that I may be con- 
sidered as an impostor or something worse — I will not fly from 
this Englishman, whose arm and sword may be no better than 
my own. My fathers have faced his betters, were he as much 
distinguished in battle as he is by his quaint discourse.” 

Pride, which has been said to save man, and woman too, 
from falling, has yet a stronger influence on the mind when it 
embraces the cause of passion, and seldom fails to render it vic- 
torious over conscience and reason. Halbert, once determined, 
though not to the better course, at lepgth slept soundly, and was 
only awakened by the dawn of day. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw, he doth it not 
lake one who is his craft’s master — ne’er the less 
I have seen a clown confer a bloody coxcomb 
On one who was a master of defence. 

Old Play. 

With the first gray peep of dawn. Halbert Glendinning arose 
and hastened to dress himself, girded on his weapon, and took a 
cross-bow in his hand, as if his usual sport had been his sole object. 


the monastery. 


‘204 

lie groped his way down the dark and winding staircase, and 
undid, with as little noise as possible, the fastenings of the inner 
door, and of the exterior iron grate. At length he stood free in 
the court-yard, and looking up to the tower, saw a signal made 
with a handkerchief from the window. Nothing doubting that it 
was his antagonist, ho paused expecting him. But it was Mary 
Avenel, who glided like a spirit from under the low and rugged 
portal. 

Halbert was much surprised, and felt, ho knew not why, like 
one caught in the act of a meditated ti’cspass. The presence of 
Mary Avenel had till that moment never given him pain. She 
spoke, too, in a tone where soiTow seemed to mingle with re- 
proach, while she asked him with emphasis, “ What he was about 
to do V’ 

He shewed his cross-bow, and was about to express the pretext 
he had meditated, when Mary interrupted him. 

“ Not so. Halbert — that evasion were unworthy of one whose 
word has hitherto been truth. You meditate not the destruction 
of the deer — your hand and your heart are aimed at other game 
— you seek to do battle with this stranger.” 

“ And wherefore should I quarrel with our guest ?” answered 
Halbert, blushing deeply. 

“ There are, indeed, many reasons why you should not,” replied 
the maiden, “ nor is there one of avail wherefore you should — 
yet nevertheless, such a quarrel you are now searching after.” 

“ Why should you suppose so, Mary ?” said Halbert, endeavour- 
ing to hide his conscious purpose — “ he is my mother’s guest — 
he is protected by the Abbot and the community, who are our 
masters — he is of high degree also, — and wherefore should you 
think that I can, or dare, resent a hasty word, which he has per- 
chance thrown out against me more from the wantonness of his 
wit, than the purpose of his heart ?” 

“ Alas !” answered the maiden, “ the very asking that question 
puts your resolution beyond a doubt. Since your childliood you 
were ever daring, seeking danger rather than avoiding it — de- 
lighting in whatever had the air of adventure and of courage : and 
it is not from fear that you will now blench from your purpose — 
Oh, let it then be from pity ! — from pity. Halbert, to your aged 
mother, whom your death or victory will alike deprive of the 
comfort and stay of her age.” 

“ She has my brother Edward,” said Halbert, turning suddenly 
from her. 

“ She has indeed,” said Mary Avenel, “ the calm, the noble- 
minded, the considerate Edward, who has thy courage. Halbert, 
without thy fiery rashness, — thy generous spirit, with more of 
reason to guide it. He would not have heard his mother, would 
not have heard his adopted sister, beseech him in vain not to ruin 
himself, and tear up their future hopes of happiness and protec- 
tion.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


205 


Halbert’s heart swelled as he replied to this reproach. “Well 

— what avails it speaking ? — you have him that is better than 
me — wiser, more considerate — braver, for aught I know — 
you are provided with a protector, and need care no more for 
me.” 

Again he turned to depart, but Mary Avenel laid her hand on 
his arm so gently that he scarce felt her hold, yet felt that it was 
impossible for him to strike it off. There he stood, one foot 
advanced to leave the court-yard, but so little determined on 
departure, that he resembled a traveller arrested by the spell of 
a magician, and unable either to quit the attitude of motion, or 
to proceed on his course. 

Mary Avenel availed herself of his state of suspense. “ Hear 
me,” she said, “hear me. Halbert ! — I am an orphan, and even 
Heaven hears the orphan — I have been the companion of your 
infancy, and if you will not hear me for an instant, from whom 
may Mary Avenel claim so poor a boon 1” 

“ I hear you,” said Halbert Glendinning, “ but be brief, dear 
Mary — you mistake the nature of my business — it is but a 
morning of summer sport which we propose.” 

“ Say not thus,” said the maiden, interrupting him, “ say not 
thus to me — others thou mayst deceive, but me thou canst 
not — There has been that in me from the earliest youth, which 
fraud flies from, and which imposture cannot deceive. For what 
fate has given me such a power I know not ; but bred an ignorant 
maiden, in this sequestered valley, mine eyes can too often see 
what man would most willingly hide — I can judge of the dark 
purpose, though it is hid under the smiling brow, and a glance 
of the eye says more to me than oaths and protestations do to 
otliers.” 

“ Then,” said Halbert, “ if thou canst so read the human heart, 

— say, dear Mary — what dost thou see in mine? — tell me that — 
say that what thou seest — what thou readest in this bosom, does 
not offend thee — say but that, and thou shalt be the guide of my 
actions, and mould me now and henceforward to honour or to 
dishonour at thy own free will !” 

Mary Avenel became first red, and then deadly pale, as Hal- 
bert Glendinning spoke. But when, turning round at the close of 
his address, he took her hand, she gently withdrew it, and replied, 
“ I cannot read the heart. Halbert, and I would not of my will 
know aught of yours, save what beseems us both — I only can 
judge of signs, words, and actions of little outward import, more 
truly than those around me, as my eyes, thou knowest, have seen 
objects not presented to those of others.” 

“ Let them gaze then on one whom they shall never see more,” 
said Halbert, once more turning from her, and rushing out of the 
court-yard without again looking back. 

Mary Avenel gave a faint scream, and clasped both her hands 
fii’mly on her forehead and eyes. She had been a minute in this 


THE MONASTERY. 


206 

attitude, when fihe was thus greeted by a voice from behind: 
“ Generously done, my most clement Discretion, to hide those 
brilliant eyes from the far inferior beams which even now begin 
to gild the eastern horizon — Certes, peril there were that Phoe- 
bus, outshone in splendour, might in very shamefacedness turn 
back his car, and rather leave the world in darkness, than incur 
the disgrace of such an encounter — Credit me, lovely Discre- 
tion ” 

But as Sir Piercie Shafton (the reader will readily set down 
these flowers of eloquence to the proper owner) attempted to 
take Mai’y Avenel’s hand, in order to proceed in his speech, 
she shook him abruptly off, and regarding him with an eye 
which evinced terror and agitation, rushed past him into the 
tower. 

The knight stood looking after her with a countenance in which 
contempt was strongly mingled with mortification. ‘‘By my 
knighthood !” he ejaculated, “ I have thrown away upon this rude 
rustic Phidele a speech, which the proudest beauty at the court of 
Felicia (so let me call the Elysium from which I am banished !) 
might have termed the very matins of Cupid. Hard and inexor- 
able was tlie fate that sent thee thither, Piercie Shafton, to waste 
thy wit upon country wenches, and thy valour upon hob-nailed 
clowns! But that insult — that affront — had it been offered to 
me by the lowest plebeian, he must have died for it by my hand, 
in respect the enormity of the offence doth coimtervail the inequa- 
lity of him by whom it is given. I trust I shall find this clowmish 
roisterer not less willing to deal in blows than in taunts.” 

While he held this conversation with himself. Sir Piercie Shaf- 
ton was hastening to the little tuft of birch-trees which had been 
assigned as the place of meeting. He greeted his antagonist with 
a courtly salutation, followed by this commentry : “ I pray you to 
observe, that I doff* my hat to you, though so 'much my inferior 
in rank, without derogation on my part, inasmuch as my having 
So far honoured you in receiving and admitting your defiance, 
doth, in the judgment of the best martialists, in some sort and 
for the time, raise you to a level with me — an honour which you 
may and ought to account cheaply purchased, even with the 
loss of your life, if such should chance to be the issue of this 
duello.” 

“ For which condescension,” said Halbert, “ I have to thank 
the token which I presented to you.” 

The knight changed colour, and grinded his teeth with rage — 
“ Draw your weapon !” said he to Glendinning. 

“ Not in this spot,” answered the youth ; “ -we should be liable 
to interruption — Follow me, and I will bring you to a place 
where we shall encounter no such risk.” 

He proceeded to walk up the glen, resolving that their place oi 
combat should be in the entrance of the Corri-nau-shian ; both 
because the spot, lying under the reputation of being haunted, was 


THE MONASTERY. 


207 

very little frequented, and also because he regarded it as a place 
which to him might be termed fated, and whicli he therefore 
resolved should witness his death or victory. 

They walked up the glen for some time in silence, like honour- 
able enemies who did not wish to contend with words, and who 
had nothing friendly to exchange with each other. Silence, 
how’ever, was always an irksome state with Sir Piercie, and, 
moreover, his anger was usually a hasty and short-lived passion. 
As, therefore, he w’ent forth, in his own idea, in all love and 
honour towards his antagonist, he saw not any cause for sub- 
mitting longer to the painful restraint of positive silence. He 
began by complimenting Halbert on the alert activity with 
which he surmounted the obstacles and impediments of the way. 

“ Trust me,” said he, “ worthy rustic, w'e have not a lighter or 
a firmer step in our courtlike revels, and if duly set forth by a 
silk hose, and trained unto that stately exercise, your leg would 
make an indifferent good show in a pavin or a galliard. And I 
doubt nothing,” he added, “ that you have availed yourself of 
some opportunity to improve yourself in the art of fence, which 
is more akin than dancing to our present purpose 

I know nothing more of fencing,” said Halbert, “ than hath 
been taught me by an old shepherd of ours, called Martin, and 
at whiles a lesson from Christie of the Clinthill — for the rest, 1 
must trust to good sw'ord, strong arm, and sound heart.” 

“ Marry and I am glad of it, young Audacity, (I will call you 
my Audacity, and you will call me your Condescension, while we 
are on these terms of unnatural equality,) I am glad of your 
ignorance with all my heart. For we martialists proportion the 
punishments which w'e inflict upon our opposites, to the length 
and hazard of the efforts wherewith they oppose themselves to us. 
And I see not why you, being but a tyro, may not be held 
sufficiently punished for your outrecuidance, and orgillous pre- 
sumption, by the loss of an ear, an eye, or even a finger, 
accompanied by some flesh-wound of depth and severity, suited 
to your error — whereas, had you been able to stand more effec- 
tually on your defence, I see not how less than your life could 
have atoned sufficiently for your presumption.” 

“ Now, by God and Our Lady,” said Halbert, unable any longer 
to restrain himself, “ thou art thyself over presumptuous, who 
speakest thus daringly of the issue of a combat which is not yet even 
begun — Are you a god, that you already dispose of my life and 
limbs ? or are you a judge in the justice-air, telling at yovm ease 
and without risk, how the head and quarters of a condemned cri- 
minal are to be disposed of 1” 

“ Not so, 0 thou, w'hom I have well permitted to call thyself 
my Audacity ? I, thy Condescension, am neither a god to judge 
the issue of the combat before it is fought, nor a judge to dispose 
at my ease and in safety of the limbs and head of a condemned 
criminal ; but I am an indifferent good roaster of fence, being 


THE MONASTERY. 


208 

the first pupil of the fii’st master of the first school of fence that 
our royal England affords, the said master being no other than, 
the truly noble, and all- anutterably-sldlful Vincentio Saviola, 
from whom I learned the firm step, quick eye, and nimble hand 

— of which qualities thou, 0 my most rustical Audacity, art full 
like to reap the fruits so soon as \^e shall find a piece of ground 
fitting for such experiments.” 

They had now reached the gorge of the ravine, where Halbert 
had at first intended to stop ; but when he observed the narrow- 
ness of the level ground, he began to consider that it was only by 
superior agility that he could expect to make up his deficiency in 
the science, as it was called, of defence. He found no spot 
which afforded sufficient room to traverse for this purpose, until 
he gained the well-known fountain, by whose margin, and in front 
of the huge rock from which it sprung, was an amphitheatre of 
level turf, of small space indeed, compared with the great height 
of the cliffs with which it was surrounded on every point save that 
from which the rivulet issued forth, yet large enough for their 
present purpose. 

When they had reached this spot of ground, fitted well by its 
gloom and sequestered situation to be a scene of mortal strife, 
both were surprised to observe that a grave was dug close by the 
foot of the rock with great neatness and regularity, the green turf 
being laid down upon the one side, and the earth thrown out in a 
heap upon the other. A mattock and shovel lay by the verge of 
the grave. 

Sir Pitrcie Shafton bent his eye with unusual seriousness 
upon Haibert Glendinning, as he asked him sternly, “Does 
this bode treason, young man ? And have you purpose to set 
upon me here as in an emboscata or place of vantage ?” 

“ Not an my part, by Heaven !” answered the youth : “ I told no 
one of 01 ^ purpose, nor would I for the throne of Scotland take 
odds agamst a single arm.” 

“ I believe thou wouldst not, mine Audacity,” said the knight, 
resuming the affected manner which was become a second nature 
to him ; “ nevertheless this fosse is curiously well shaped, and 
might ba the masterpiece of Nature’s last bed-maker, I would say 
the sexton — Wherefore, let us be thankful to chance or some 
unknown friend, who hath thus provided for one of us the de- 
cencies of sepulture, and let us proceed to determine which 
shall have the advantage of enjoying this place of undisturbed 
slumber.” 

So saying, he stripped off his doublet and cloak, which he 
folded up with great care, and deposited upon a large stone, while 
Halbert Glendinning, not without some emotion, followed his ex- 
ample. Their vicinity to the favourite haunt of the White Lady 
led him to form conjectures concerning the incident of the grave 

— “It must have been her work!” he thought: “the Spirit 
foresaw and has provided for the fatal event of the combat — I 


THE MONASTERY. 209 

must return from this place a homicide, or I must remain here for 
ever !” 

The bridge seemed now broken down behind him, and the 
chance of coming off honourably without killing or being killed, 
(the hope of which issue has cheered the sinking heart of many a 
duellist,) seemed now altogether to be removed. Yet the very 
desperation of his situation gave him, on an instant’s reflection, 
both firmness and courage, and presented to him one sole alter- 
native, conquest, namely, or death. 

‘‘ As we are here,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ unaccompanied 
by any patrons or seconds, it were well you should pass your 
hands over my side, as I shall over yours ; not that I suspect you 
to use any quaint device of privy armour, but in order to comply 
with the ancient and laudable custom practised on all such occa- 
sions.” 

While, complying with his antagonist’s humour, Halbert Glen- 
dinning went through this ceremony. Sir Piercie Shafton did not 
fail to solicit his attention to the quality and fineness of his 
wrouglit and embroidered shirt — “ In this very shirt,” said he, 
“ 0 mine Audacity ! — I say in this very garment, in which I am 
now to combat a Scottish rustic like thyself, it was my envied lot 
to lead the winning party at that wondrous match at ballon, made 
betwixt the divine Astrophel, (our matchless Sidney,) and the right 
honourable my very good lord of Oxforfl. All the beauties oi 
Felicia (by which name I distinguish our beloved England) stood 
in the gallery, waving their kerchiefs at each turn of the game, 
and cheering the winners by their plaudits. After which noble 
sport we were refreshed by a suitable banquet, whereat it pleased 
the noble Urania (being the unmatched Countess of Pembroke) to 
accommodate me with her fan for the cooling my somewhat too 
much inflamed visage, to requite which courtesy, I said, casting my 
features into a smiling yet melancholy fashion, 0 divinest Ui’ania! 
receive again that too fatal gift, which not like the Zephyr cooleth, 
but- like the hot breath of the Sirocco, heateth yet more that which 
is already inflamed. Whereupon, looking upon me somewhat 
scornfully, yet not so but what the experienced courtier might 
perceive a certain cast of approbative affection ” 

Here the knight was interrupted by Halbert, who had waited 
with courteous patience for some little time, till he found, that far 
from drawing to a close. Sir Piercie seemed rather inclined to wax 
prolix in his reminiscences. 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youtli, “ if this matter be not very 
much to the purpose, we will, if you object not, proceed to that 
which we have in hand. You should have abidden in England 
had you desired to waste time in words, for here we spend it in 
blows.” 

^ I crave your pardon, most rusticated Audacity,” answered Sir 
Piercie ; “ truly I become oblivous of every thing beside, when 
the recollections of the divine court of Felicia press upon my 
X. 0 


210 


THE MONASTERY. 


wakcnerl memory, oven as a saint is dazzled when lie bethinks 
him of the beatific vision. Ah, felicitous Feliciana ! delicate nurse 
of tlie fair, chosen abode of the wise, the birth-place and cradle of 
nobility, the temple of courtesy, the fane of sprightly chivalry — Ah 
heavenly court, or rather courtly heaven ! cheered with dances, 
lulled asileep with harmony, wakened with sprightly sports and 
tourneys, decored with silks and tissues, glittering with diamonds 
and jewels, standing on end with double piled velvets, satins, 
and satinettas !” 

“ The token, Sir Knight, the token !” exclaimed Halbert Glen- 
dinning, who, impatient of Sir Piercie’s interminable oratory, 
reminded him of the ground of their quarrel, as the best way to 
compel him to the purpose of their meeting. 

And he judged right ; for Sir Piercie Shafton no sooner heard 
him speak, than he exclaimed, Thy death-hour has struck — 
betake thee to thy sword — Via !” 

Both swords were unsheathed, and the combatants commenced 
their engagement. Halbert became immediately aware, that, as 
he had expected, he was far inferior to his adversary in the use 
of his weapon. Sir Piercie Shafton had taken no moi'e than his 
own share of real merit, when he termed himself an absolutely 
good fencer ; and Glendinning soon found that he should have 
great difficulty in escaping with life and honour from such a 
master of the sword. The English knight was master of ah the 
mystery of the stoccata, imbrocata, punto-re'cerso, incartata, and 
so forth, which the Italian masters of defence had lately intro- 
duced into general practice. But Glendinning, on his part, w'as 
no novice in the principles of the art, according to the old Scot- 
tish fashion, and possessed the first of all qualities, a steady and 
collected mind. At first, being desirous to try the skill, and 
become acquainted with the play of his enemy, he stood on his 
defence, keeping his foot, hand, eye, and body, in perfect unison, 
and holding his sword short, and with the point towards his 
antagonist’s face, so that Sir Piercie, in order to assail him, was 
obliged to make actual passes, and could not avail liimself of his 
skill in making feints ; while, on the other hand. Halbert w'as 
prompt to parry these attacks, either by shifting his ground, or 
with the sword. The consequence was, that after two or tliree 
sharp attempts on the part of Sir Piercie, which w'ere evaded or 
disconcerted by the address of his opponent, he began to assume 
the defensive in his turn, fearful of givmg some advantage by 
being repeatedly tlie assailant. But Halbert was too cautious to 
press on a swordsman whose dexterity had already more than 
once placed him within a hair’s-breadth of death, which he had 
only escaped by uncommon w^atchfulness and agility. 

When each had made a feint or two, there was a pause in the 
conflict, both as if by one assent dropping their swords’ point, 
and looking on each other for a moment without speaking. At 
length Halbert Glendinning, who felt perhaps more uneasy on 


THE MONASTERY. 


211 


account of his family than he had done before ho had displayed 
his own courage, and proved the strength of his antagonist, could 
not help saying, Is the subject of our quarrel. Sir Knight, so 
mortal, that one of our two bodies must needs fill up that grave ! 
or may we with honour, having proved ourselves against each 
other, sheathe our swords and depart friends 1” 

“ Valiant and most rustical Audacity,” said the Southron 
knight, “ to no man on earth could you have put a question on 
the code of honour, who was more capable of rendering you a 
reason. Let us pause for the space of one venue, untU I give 
you my opinion on this dependence ;* for certain it is, that brave 
men should not run upon their fate like brute and furious wild 
beasts, but should slay each other deliberately, decently, and 
with reason. Therefore, if we coolly examine the state of our 
dependence, we may the better apprehend whether the sisters 
three have doomed one of us to expiate the same with his blood 
— Dost thou understand me ?” 

“ I have heard Father Eustace,” said Halbert, after a moment’s 
recollection, “ speak of the three furies, with their thread and 
their shears.” 

“ Enough — enough,” — interrupted Sir Piercie Shafton, crim- 
soning with a new fit of rage, ‘‘ the thread of thy life is spun !” 

And with these words he attacked w’ith the utmost ferocity the 
Scottish youth, who had but just time to throw himself into a 
posture of defence. But the rash fury of the assailant, as fre- 
quently happens, disappointed its own purpose ; for, as he made 
a desperate thrust. Halbert Glendinning avoided it, and ere the 
knight could recover his weapon, requited him (to use his own 
language) with a resolute stoccata, which passed through his 
body, and Sir Piercie Shafton fell to the ground. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought, 

Each fiery passion, every strong aflection. 

All sense of outward ill and inward sorrow. 

Are fled at cnee from the pale trunk before me ; 

And I have given that which spoke and moved. 

Thought, acted, suflFer’d as a living man, 

To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 

Soon the foul food for reptiles. 

Old Play. 

I BELIEVE few successful duellists (if the word successful can 
be applied to a superiority so fatal) have beheld their dead anta- 
gonist stretched on the earth at their feet, without wishing they 
could redeem with their own blood that which it has been their 

* Dependence — A phrase among the brethren of the sword for an existing 
quarrel. 


212 


THE MONASTERY. 


fate to spill. Least of all could such indifference be the lot of so 
young a man as Halbert Glendinning, who, unused to the sight 
of human blood, was not only struck with sorrow, but with terror, 
when he beheld Sir Piercie Shafton lie stretched on the green- 
sward before him, vomiting gore as if impelled by the strokes of 
a pump. He threw his bloody sword on the ground, and hastened 
to kneel down and support hiin, vainly striving, at the same time, 
to stanch his wound, which seemed rather to bleed inwardly than 
externally. 

The unfortunate knight spoke at intervals, when the syncope 
would permit him, and his words, so far as intelligible, partook of 
his affected and conceited, yet not ungenerous character. 

Most rustical youth,” he said, “ thy fortune hath prevailed 
over knightly skill — and Audacity hath overcome Condescension, 
even as the lute hath sometimes hawked at and struck down the 
falcon-gentle. — Fly and save thyself! — Take my pm’se — it is in 
the nether pocket of my carnation-coloured hose — and is worth 
a clown’s acceptance. See that my mails, with my vestments, be 
sent to the Monastery of St Mary’s” — (here his voice grew weak, 
and his mind and recollection seemed to waver) — “ I bestow the 
cut velvet jerkin, with close breeches conforming — for — oh I — 
the good of my soul.” 

“ Be of good comfort, sir,” said Halbert, half distracted with 
his agony of pity and remorse. “ I trust you shall yet do well 
— Oh for a leech !” 

“ Were there twenty physicians, 0 most generous Audacity, 
and that were a grave spectacle — I. might not survive, my life is 
ebbing fast. — Commend me to the rustical nymph whom I 
called my Discretion — 0 Claridiana ! — true empress of this 
bleeding heart — which now bleedeth in sad earnest ! — Place 
me on the ground at my length, most rustical victor, born to 
quench the pride of the burning light of the most felicitous court 
of Feliciana — 0 saints and angels — Imights and ladies — masques 
and theatres — quaint devices — chain-work and broidery — love, 
honour, and beauty 1 ” 

While muttering these last words, which slid from him, as it 
were unawares, while doubtless he was recalling to mind the 
glories of the EngUsh court, the gallant Sir Piercie Shafton 
stretched out his hmbs — groaned deeply, shut his eyes, and be- 
came motionless. 

The victor tore his hair for very sorrow, as he looked on the 
pale countenance of his victim. Life, he thought, had not utterly 
fled, but without better aid than liis own, he saw not how it could 
be preserved. 

“ Why,” he exclaimed, in vain penitence, “ why did I provoke 
him to an issue so fatal ! Would to God I had submitted to the 
worst insult man could receive from man, rather than be the 
bloody instrument of this bloody deed — and doubly cursed be 
this evii'boding spot, which, haunted as I knew it to be by a 


THE MONASTERY. 


213 

witch or a devil, I yet chose for the place of combat ! In any 
other place, save this, there had been help to be gotten by speed 
of foot, or by uplifting of voice — but here there is no one to be 
found by search, no one to hear my shouts, save the evil spirit 
who has counselled this mischief. It is not her hour — I will 
essay the spell howsoever ; and if she can give me aid, she shall 
do it, or know of what a madman is capable even against those 
of another world !” 

He spurned his bloody shoe from his foot, and repeated the 
spell with which the reader is well acquainted ; but there was 
neither voice, apparition, nor signal of answer. The youth, in 
the impatience of his despair, and with the rash hardihood which 
formed the basis of his character, shouted aloud “ Witch — Sorce- 
ress — Fiend ! — art thou deaf to my cries of help, and so ready 
to appear and answer those of vengeance ? Arise and speak to 
me, or I will choke up thy fountain, tear down thy hollybush, 
and leave thy haunt as waste and bare as thy fatal assistance has 
made me waste of comfort and bare of counsel !’' — This furious 
and raving invocation was suddenly interrupted by a distant 
sound, resembling a hollo, from the gorge of the ravine. “ Now 
may Saint Mary be praised,” said the youth, hastily fastening his 
sandal, “ I hear the voice of some living man, who may give me 
counsel and help in this fearful extremity.” 

Having donned his sandal. Halbert Glendinning, hallooing at 
intervals, in answer to the sound which he had heard, ran with 
the speed of a hunted buck down the rugged defile, as if paradise 
had been before him, hell and all her furies behind, and his 
eternal happiness or misery had depended upon the speed which 
he exerted. In a space incredibly short for any one but a Scot- 
tish mountaineer having his nerves strung by the deepest and 
most passionate interest, the youth reached the entrance of the 
ravine, through which the rill that flows down Corri-nan-shiau 
discharges itself, and unites with the brook that waters the little 
valley of Glendearg. 

Here he paused, and looked around him upwards and down- 
wards through the glen, without perceiving a human foi’m. His 
heart sank within him. But the windings of the glen intercepted 
his prospect, and the person, whose voice he had heard, might, 
therefore, be at no great distance, though not obvious to his 
sight. The branches of an oak-tree, which shot straight out 
from the face of a tall cliff, proffered to his bold spirit, steady 
head, and active limbs, the means of ascending it as a place of 
out-look, although the enterprise was what most men would have 
shrunk from. But by one bound from the earth, the active 
youth caught hold of the lower branch, and swung himself up 
into the tree, and in a minute more gained the top of the cliff*, 
from which he could easily descry a human figure descending 
the valley. It was not that of a shepherd, or of a hunter, and 
scarcely any others used to traverse this deserted solitude, espe- 


214 


THE MONASTERY. 


daily coming from the north, since the reader may remember 
that the brook took its rise from an extensive and dangerous 
morass which lay in that direction. 

But Halbert Glendinning did not pause to consider who the 
traveller might be, or what might be the purpose of his journey. 
To know that he saw a human being, and might receive, in the 
extremity of his distress, the countenance and advice of a fellow- 
creature, was enough for him at the moment. He threw himself 
from the pinnacle of the cliff once more into the arms of the 
projecting oak-tree, whose boughs waved in middle air, anchored 
by the roots in a huge rift, or chasm of the rock. Catching at the 
branch which was nearest to liim, he dropped himself from that 
height upon the ground ; and such was the athletic springiness 
of his youthful sinews, that he pitched there as lightly, and with 
as little injury, as the falcon stooping from her wheel. 

To resume his race at full speed up the glen, was the work of 
an instant ; and as he turned angle after angle of the indented 
banks of the valley, without meeting that which he sought, he 
became half afraid that the form which he had seen at such a 
distance had already melted into thin air, and was either a decep- 
tion of his own imagination, or of the elementary spirits by which 
the valley was supposed to be haunted. 

But, to his inexpressible joy, as he turned round the base of a 
huge and distinguished crag, he saw, straight before and very near 
to him, a person, whose dress, as he viewed it hastily, resembled 
that of a pilgrim. 

He was a man in advanced life, and wearing a long beard, 
having on his head a large slouched hat, without either band or 
brooch. His dress was a tunic of black serge, which like those 
commonly called hussar-cloaks, had an upper part, wliich covered 
the arms and fell down on the lower ; a small scrip and bottle, 
which hung at his back, with a stout staff in his hand, completed 
his equipage. His step was feeble, like that of one exhausted by 
a toilsome journey. 

" Save ye, good father !” said the youth. ‘‘ God and Our Lady 
have sent you to my assistance.” 

“ And in what, my son, can so frail a creature as I am, be of 
service to you 1” said the old man, not a little surprised at being 
thus accosted by so handsome a youth, his features discomposed 
by anxiety, his face flushed with exertion, his hands and much of 
his dress stained with blood. 

" A man bleeds to death in the valley here, hard by. Come 
with me — come with me I You ai’e aged — you have experience . — 
you have at least your senses — and mine have well-nigh left me.” 

“ A man — and bleeding to death — and here in this desolate 
spot I*’ said the stranger. 

“ Stay not to question it, father,” said the youth, “ but come 
instantly to his rescue. Follow me — follow me, without an in- 
stant’s delay.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


215 


‘‘Nay, but, my son,” said tlio old man, “wc do not lightly 
follow the guides who present themselves thus suddenly in the 
bosom of a howling wilderness. Ere I follow thee, thou must 
expound to me thy name, thy purpose, and thy cause.” 

“ There is no time to expound any thing,” said Halbert ; “ I 
tell thee a man’s life is at stake, and thou must come to aid him, 
or I will carry thee thither by force ! ” 

“ Nay, thou shalt not need,” said the traveller ; “ if it indeed 
be as thou sayest, I will follow tliee of free-will — the rather that 
I am not wholly unskilled in leech-craft, and have in my scrip that 
which may do thy friend a service — Yet walk more slowly, 1 
pray thee, for I am already well-nigh forespent with travel.” 

With the indignant impatience of the fiery steed when compelled 
by his rider to keep pace with some slow drudge upon the high- 
way, Halbert accompanied the wayfarer, burning with anxiety 
wdiich he endeavoured to subdue, that he might not alarm his 
companion, who w'as obviously afraid to trust him. When they 
reached the place where they were to turn off the wider glen into 
the Corri, the traveller made a doubtful pause, as if unwilling 
to leave the broader path — “Young man,” he said, “if thou 
meanest aught but good to these gi’ay hairs, thou wilt gain little 
by thy cruelty — I have no earthly treasure to tempt either 
robber or murderer.” 

“And I,” said the youth, “am neither — and yet — God of 
Heaven ! — I may be a murderer, unless your aid comes in time 
to this w’ounded wretch !” 

“ Is it even so,” said the traveller ; “ and do human passions 
disturb the breast of nature even in her deepest solitude ? — Yet 
why should I marvel that where darkness abides the w’orlcs of 
darkness should abound ? — By its fruits is the tree known — 
-Lead on, unhappy youth — I follow thee !” 

And with better will to the journey than he had evinced hither- 
to, the stranger exerted himself to the utteraiost, and seemed to 
forget his own fatigue in his efforts to keep pace wdth his impa- 
tient guide. 

What w'as the surprise of Halbert Glendinning, when, upon 
arriving at the fatal spot, he saw no appearance of the body of 
Sir Piercie Shafton ! The traces of the fray were otherwise 
sufficiently visible. The knight’s cloak had indeed vanished as 
■well as his body, but his doublet remained where he had laid it 
down, and the turf on which he had been stretched was stained 
with blood in many a dark crimson spot. 

As he gazed round him in ten'or and astonishment. Halbert’s 
eyes fell upon the place of sepulture which had so lately appeared 
to gape for a victim. It was no longer open, and it seemed that 
eartli had received tlie expected tenant ; for the usual narrow 
hillock was piled over what had lately been an open grave, and 
the green sod was adjusted over all with the accuracy of an expe- 
rienced sexton. Halbert stood aghast. The idea rushed on his 


THE MONASTERY. 


216 

mind irresistibly, that the eartli-heap before him enclosed wljat 
had lately been a living, moving, and sentient fellow-creature, 
whom, on little provocation, his fell act had reduced to a clod of 
the valley, as senseless and as cold as the turf under which ho 
rested. The hand that scooped the grave had completed its 
work ; and whose hand could it be save that of the mysterious 
being of doubtful quality, whom his rashness had invoked, and 
whom he had suffered to intermingle in his destinies ? 

As he stood with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, bitterly 
rueing his rashness, he was roused by the voice of the stranger, 
whose suspicions of his guide had again been awakened by 
finding the scene so different from what Halbert had led him to 
expect. — “Young man,” he said, “hast thou baited thy tongue 
with falsehood to cut perhaps only a few days from the life of one 
whom Nature will soon call home, without guilt on thy part to 
hasten his journey ?” 

“ By the blessed Heaven ! — by our dear Lady !” ejaculated 
Halbert 

“ Swear not at all !” said the stranger, inteiTupting him, 
“ neither by Heaven, for it is God’s throne, nor by earth, for it is 
his footstool — nor by the creatures whom he hath made, for 
they are but earth and clay as we are. Let thy yea be yea, and thy 
nay nay. Tell me in a word, why and for what purpose 
thou hast feigned a tale, to lead a bewildered traveller yet farther 
astray ?” 

“ As I am a Christian man,” said Glendinning, “ I left him 
here bleeding to death — and now I no where spy him, and much 
I doubt that the tomb that thou seest has closed on his mortal re- 
mains !” 

“ And who is he for whose fate thou art so anxious ?” said the 
stranger ; “ or how is it possible that this wounded man could 
have been either removed from, or interred in, a place so soli- 
tary ?” 

“ His name,” said Halbert, after a moment’s pause, “ is Piercie 
Shafton — there, on that very spot, I left him bleeding ; and what 
power has conveyed him hence, I know no more than thou dost.” 

“ Piercie Shafton ?” said the stranger ; “ Sir Piercie Shafton 
of Wilverton, a kinsman, as it is said, of the great Piercie of 
Northumberland ? If thou hast slain him, to return to the 
territories of the proud Abbot is to give thy neck to the gallows. 
He is well known that Piercie Shafton ; the meddling tool of 
wiser plotters — a harebrained trafficker in treason — a champion 
of the Pope, employed as a forlorn hope by those more politic 
heads, who have more will to work mischief, than valour to 
encounter danger. — Come with me, youth, and save thyself from 
the evil consequences of this deed — Guide me to the Castle of 
Avenel, and thy reward shall be protection and safety.” 

Again Halbert paused, and summoned his mind to a hasty 
council. The vengeance with which the Abbot was likely to visit 


THE MONASTERY. 


217 

the slaughter of Shafton, his friend, and in some measure his 
guest, was likely to be severe ; yet, in the various contingencies 
which he had considered previous to their duel, he had unac- 
countably omitted to reflect what was to be his line of conduct in 
case of Sir Piercie falling by his hand. If he returned to Glen- 
dearg, he was sure to draw on his whole family, including Mary 
Avenel, the resentment of the Abbot and community, whereas it 
was possible that flight might make him be regarded as the sole 
author of the deed, and might avert the indignation of the monks 
from the rest of the inhabitants of his paternal tower. Halbert 
recollected also the favour expressed for the household, and 
especially for Edward, by the Sub-Prior ; and he conceived that 
he could, by communicating his own guilt to that worthy eccle- 
siastic, w'hen at a distance from Glendearg, secure his powerful 
interposition in favour of his family. These thoughts rapidly 
passed through his mind, and he determined on flight. The 
stranger’s company and his promised protection came in aid of 
that resolution ; but he was unable to reconcile the invitation 
which the old man gave him to accompany him for safety to the 
Castle of Avenel, with the connections of Julian, the present 
usurper of that inheritance. “ Good father,” he said, “ I fear 
that you mistake the man with w'hom you wish me to harbour. 
Avenel guided Piercie Shafton into Scotland, and his henchman, 
Christie of the Clinthill, brought the Southron hither.” 

“ Of that,” said the old man, “ I am well aware. Yet if thou 
wilt trust to me, as I have shewn no reluctance to confide in 
thee, thou shalt find with Julian Avenel welcome, or at least 
safety.” 

Father,” replied Halbert, “ though I can ill reconcile what 
thou sayest with what Julian Avenel hath done, yet caring little 
about the safety of a creature so lost as myself, and as thy words 
seem those of truth and honesty, and finally, as thou didst render 
thyself frankly up to my conduct, I will return the confidence 
thou hast shewn, and accompany thee to the Castle of Avenel by 
a road which thou thyself couldst never have discovered.” He 
led the way, and the old man followed for some time in silence. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


’Tis when tlie wotincl is stiffening with the cold, 

The warrior first feels pain — ’tis when the heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is pass’d. 

The sinner feels remorse. 

Old Play. 

The feelings of compunction with which Halbert Glcndinning 
was visited upon this painful occasion, were deeper tlian belonged 
to an age and country in which human life was held so cheap. 
They fell far short certainly of tliose which might have afflicted 


THE MONASTERY. 


218 

a mind regulated by better religious precepts, and more strictly 
trained under social laws ; but still they were deep and severely 
felt, and divided in Halbert’s heart even the regret with which he 
parted from Mary Avenel and the tower of his fathers. 

The old traveller walked silently by his side for some time, and 
tlien addressed him. — "My son, it has been said that sorrow 
must speak or die — Why art thou so much cast clown ? — Tell 
me thy unhappy tale, and it may be that my gray head may 
devise counsel and aid for your young life.” 

" Alas !” said Halbert Glen dinning, “ can you wonder why 
I am cast down ? — I am at this instant a fugitive from my 
father’s house, from my mother, and from my friends, and I bear 
on my head the blood of a man who injured me but in idle words, 
which I have thus bloodily requited. My heart now tells me I 
have done evil — it were harder than these rocks if it could bear 
unmoved the thought, that I have sent this man to a long account, 
unhouseled and unshrieved !” 

" Pause there, my son,” said the traveller. “ That thou hast 
defaced God’s image in thy neighbour’s person — that thou hast 
sent dust to dust in idle wrath or idler pride, is indeed a sin ot 
tlie deepest dye — that tliou hast cut short the space which 
Heaven might have allowed him for repentance, makes it yet 
more deadly — but for all this there is balm in Gilead.” 

“ I understand you not, father,” said Halbert, struck by the 
solemn tone which was assumed by his companion. 

The old man proceeded. "Thou hast slain thine enemy — it 
was a cruel deed; thou hast cut him off perchance in his sins — it 
is a fearful aggravation. Do yet by my counsel, and in lieu of 
him whom thou hast perchance consigned to the kingdom of 
Satan, let thine efforts wrest another subject from the reign oi 
the Evil One.” 

" I understand you, father,” said Halbert; " thou wouldst have 
mo atone for my rashness by doing service to the soul of my 
adversary — But how may this be? I have no money to purchase 
masses, and gladly would I go barefoot to the Holy Land to free 
his spirit from purgatory, only that ” 

" My son,” said the old man, intercupting him, " the sinner for 
whose redemption I entreat you to labour, is not the dead but the 
living. It is not for the soul of thine enemy I would exhort thee 
to pray — that has already had its final doom from a Judge as 
merciful as he is just; nor, wert thou to coin that rock into duqats, 
and obtain a mass for each one, would it avail the departed spirit. 
Where the tree hath fallen, it must lie. But the sapling, which 
hath in it yet the vigour and juice of life, may be bended to the 
point to which it ought to incline.” 

" Art thou a priest, father ?” said the young man, " or by what 
commission dost thou talk of such high matters ?” 

“ By that of my Almighty Master,” said the traveller, " under 
whose banner I am an enlisted soldier’.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


219 

Halbert’s acquaintance with religious matters was no deeper 
tliaji could be derived from the Archbishop of Saint Andrew’s 
Catechism, and the pamphlet called the Twa-pennie Faith, both 
which were industriously circulated and recommended by the 
monks of Saint Mary’s. Yet, however indifferent and super- 
ficial a theologian, he began to suspect that he was now in com- 
pany mth one of the gospellers, or heretics, before whose influence 
the ancient system of religion now tottered to the very foundation. 
Bred up, as may well be presumed, in a holy horror against these 
formidable sectaries, the youth’s first feelings were those of a 
loyal and devoted church vassal. “ Old man,” he said, “ wert 
thou able to make good with thy hand the words that thy tongue 
hath spoken against our Holy Mother Church, we should have 
tried upon this moor which of our creeds hath the better cham- 
pion.” 

“ Nay,” said the stranger, " if thou art a true soldier of Rome, 
thou wilt not pause from thy purpose because thou hast the odds 
ot yeai’s and of strength on thy side. Hearken to me, my son. I 
have shewed thee how to make thy peace with Heaven, and thou 
hast rejected my proffer. I will now shew thee how thou slialt 
make thy reconciliation with the powers of this world. Take this 
gray head from the frail body which supports it, and carry it to 
the chair of proud Abbot Boniface ; and when thou tellest him 
thou hast slain Piercie Shafton, and his ire rises at the deed, 
lay tlie head of Henry Warden at his foot, and thou shalt have 
praise instead of censure.” 

Halbert Glendinning stepped back in surprise. “ What ! are 
you that Henr^ Warden so famous among the heretics, that even 
Knox’s name is scarce more frequently in their mouths ? Art 
thou he, and darest thou to approach the Halidome of Saint 
Mary’s *” 

“ I am Henry Warden of a surety,” said the old man, " far 
unworthy to be named in the same breath with Knox, but yet 
willing to ventm’e on whatever dangers my master’s service may 
call me to.” 

“ Heai’ken to me, then,” said Halbert ; “ to slay thee, I have 
no heart — to make thee prisoner, u-ere equally to bring thy blood 
on my head — to leave thee in this wild without a guide, were 
little better. T will conduct thee, as I promised, in safety to the 
Castle of Avenel ; but breathe not, while we are on the journey, 
a word against the docti’ines of the holy church of which I am an 
unworthy — but though an ignorant, a zealous member, — When 
thou art there arrived, beware of thyself — there is a high price 
upon thy head, and Julian Avenel loves the glance of gold bonnet- 
pieces.” * 

“ Yet thou sayest not,” answered the Protestant preacher, for 
such he was, “ that for lucre he would sell tlie blood of liis guest ?” 

• A gold coin of James V., tlie most beautiful of the Scottish series ; 60 called 
because the effigies of the sovereign is represented wearing a bonnet. 


220 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Not if tliou comest an invited stranger, relying on his faith,” 
said the youth ; “ evil as Julian may he, he dare not break the 
rites of hospitality ; for, loose as we on these marches may be in all 
other ties, tnese ai’e respected amongst us even to idolatry, and 
his nearest relations would think it incumbent on them to spill 
his blood themselves, to efface the disgrace such treason would 
bring upon their name and lineage. But if thou goest self-invited, 
and without assurance of safety, I promise thee thy risk is great.” 

“ I am in God’s hand,” answered the preacher ; “ it is on His 
errand that I traverse these wilds amidst dangers of every kind ; 
while I am useful for my master’s service, they shall not prevail 
against me, and when, like the barren-fig-tree, I can no longer 
produce fruit, what imports it when or by whom the axe is laid to 
the root ?” 

“ Your courage and devotion,” said Glendinning, ^^are worthy 
of a better cause.” 

“ That,” said Warden, “ cannot be — mine is the very best.” 

They continued their journey in silence. Halbert Glendinning 
tracing with the utmost accuracy the mazes of the dangerous and 
intricate morasses and hills which divided the Halidome from the 
barony of Avenel. From time to time he was obliged to stop, in 
order to assist his companion to cross the black intervals of quak- 
ing bog, called in the Scottish dialect hags, by which the firmer 
parts of the morass were intersected. 

Courage, old man,” said Halbert, as he saw his companion 
almost exhausted with fatigue, ‘‘we shall soon be upon hard 
ground. And yet soft as this moss is, I have seen the merry fal- 
coners go through it as light as deer when the quarry was upon 
the flight.” 

“ True, my son,” answered Warden, “ for so I will still call 
you, though you term me no longer father ; and even so doth 
headlong youth pursue its pleasures, Avithout regard to the mire 
and the peril of the paths through which they are hurried.” 

“ I have already told thee,” answered Halbert Glendinning, 
sternly^ “that I will hear nothing from thee that savours of 
doctrine.” 

“Nay, but, my son,” answered Warden, “ thy spiritual father 
himself would surely not dispute the truth of what I have now 
spoken for your edification !” 

Glendinning stoutly replied, “ I know not how that may be — 
but I wot well it is the fashion of your brotherhood to bait your 
hook with fair discourse, and to hold yourselves up as angels of 
light, that you may the better extend the kingdom of darkness.” 

“ May God,” replied the preacher, “ pardon those who have thus 
reported of his servants ! I will not offend thee, my son, by 
being instant out of season — thou speakest but as thou art taught 
— yet sure I trust that so goodly a youth will be still rescued, like 
a brand from the burning.” 

While he thus spoke, the verge of the morass was attained, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


221 

their path lay on the declivity. Green-sward it was, and, viewed 
from a distance, chequered with its narrow and verdant line tlie 
dark-brown heath which it traversed, though the distinction was 
not so easily traced when they were walking on it. * The old 
man pursued his journey Avith comparative ease ; and, unwilling 
again to awaken the jealous zeal of his young companion for the 
Roman faith, he discoursed on other matters. The tone of his 
conversation was still gi’ave, moral, and instructive. He had 
travelled much, and knew both the language and manners of 
other countries, concerning which Halbert Glendinning, already 
anticipating the possibility of being obliged to quit Scotland for 
the deed he had done, was naturally and anxiously desirous of 
information. By degrees he was more attracted by the charms 
of the stranger’s conversation than repelled by the dread of his 
dangerous character as a heretic, and Halbert had called him 
father more than once, ere the turrets of Avenel Castle came in 
view. 

The situation of this ancient fortress was remarkable. It 
occupied a small rocky islet in a mountain lake, or tarn, as such 
a piece of water is called in Westmoreland. The lake might be 
about a mile in circumference, surrounded by hills of considerable 
height, which, except where old trees and brushwood occupied 
the ravines that divided them from each other, were bare and 
heathy. The surprise of the spectator was chiefly excited by 
finding a piece of water situated in that high and mountainous 
region, and the landscape around had features which might rather 
be termed wild, than either romantic or sublime ; yet the scene 
was not without its charms. Under the burning sun of summer, 
the clear azure of the deep unruffled lake refreshed the eye, and 
impressed the mind with a pleasing feeling of deep solitude. In 
winter, when the snow lay on the mountains around, tliese dazzling 
masses appeared to ascend far beyond their wonted and natural 
height, Avhile tlie lake, which stretched beneath, and filled their 
bosom with all its frozen waves, lay like the surface of a dai-kened 
and broken mirror around the black and rocky islet, and the walls 
of the gray castle with which it was crowned. 

As the castle occupied, either with its principal buildings, or 
with its flanking and outward walls, every projecting point of 
rock, which served as its site, it seemed as completely surrounded 
by water as the nest of a wild SAvan, save Avhere a narroAv cause- 
way extended betwixt the islet and the shoi’e. But the fortress 
was larger in appearance than in reality ; and of the buildings 
which it actually contained, many had become ruinous and unin- 
habitable. In the times of the grandeur of the Avenel family, 
these had been occupied by a considerable garrison of followers 
and retainers, but they were now in a great measure deserted; and 

• This sort of path, visible Avhen looked at from a distance, but not to bo 
seen when you are upon it, is called on the Border by the significant name of a 
Blind-road 


222 


THE MONASl’ERY. 


Julian A vend would probably have fixed his habitation In a resi- 
dence better suited to his diminished fortunes, had it not been for 
the great security which the situation of the old castle afforded to 
a man of his precarious and perilous mode of life. Indeed, in 
this respect, the spot codd scarce have been more happily chosen, 
for it could be rendered almost completely inaccessible at the 
pleasure of the inhabitant. The distance betwixt the nearest 
shore and the islet was not indeed above an hundred yards ; but 
then the causeway which connected them was extremely narrow, 
and completely divided by two cuts, one in the mid-way between 
tlie islet and shore, and another close under the outward gate of 
the castle. These formed a formidable, and almost insurmountable 
interruption to any hostile approach. Each was defended by a 
drawbridge, one of which, being that nearest to the castle, was 
regularly raised at all times during the day, and both were lifted 
at night. * 

The situation of Julian Avenel, engaged in a variety of feuds, 
and a party to almost every dark and mysterious transaction 
which was on foot in that wild and military frontier, required all 
these precautions for his security. His own ambiguous and 
doubtful course of policy had increased these dangers ; for as he 
made professions to both parties in the state, and occasionally 
united more actively with either the one or the other, as chanced 
best to serve his immediate purpose, he could not be said to have 
either firm allies and protectors, or determined enemies. His 
life was a life of expedients and of peril ; and while, in pursuit of 
his interest, he made all the doubles which he thought necessary 
to attain his object, he often over -ran his prey, and missed that 
which he might have gained by observing a straighter course. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

I’ll walk on tiptoe ; arm my e3'e with caution, 

]\Iy heart with courage, and my hand with weapon. 

Like him who ventures on a lion’s den. 

Old Play. 

WiiKN, issuing from the gorge of a pass which terminated upon 
the lake, the travellers came in sight of the ancient castle of 
Avenel, the old man paused, and, resting upon his pilgrim staff, 
looked with earnest attention upon the scene before him. The 
castle was, as we have said, in many places ruinous, as was evi- 
dent, even at this distance, by the broken, rugged, and irregular 
outline of the walls and of the towei’s. In others it seemed more 
entire, and a pillar of dark smoke, which ascended from the 
chimneys of the donjon, and spread its long dusky pennon through 


• See Note H. Avenel Caelle. 


THE MONASTERY. 


223 

tlie clear etlier, indicated that ?t. was inhabited. But no corn- 
fields or enclosed pasture-grounds on the side of the lake shewed 
that provident attention to comfort and subsistence which usually 
appeared near the houses of the greater, and even of the lesser 
barons. There were no cottages with their patches of infield, and 
their crofts and gardens, surrounded by rows of massive syca- 
mores ; no church with ite simple tower in the valley ; no herds 
of sheep among the hills ; no cattle on the lower ground ; nothing 
which intimated the occasional prosecution of the arts of peace 
and of industry. It was plain that the inhabitants, whether few 
or numerous, must be considered as the garrison of the castle, 
living within its defended precincts, and subsisting by means 
which were other than peaceful. 

Probably it was with this conviction that the old man, gazing 
on the castle, muttered to himself, “ Lapis offensionis et petra 
scandali !” and then, turning to Halbert Glcndinning, he added, 
“We may say of yonder fort as King James did of another 
fastness in this province, that he who built it was a thief in his 
heart.” * 

“ But it was not so,” answered Glendinniug ; “ yonder castle 
was built by the old lords of Avenel, men as much beloved in 
peace as they wei'e respected in war. They were the bulwark of 
the frontiers against foreigners, and the protectors of the natives 
from domestic oppression. The present usui’per of their inheri- 
tiince no more resembles them, than the night-prowling owl 
resembles a falcon, because she builds on the same rock.” 

“ This Julian Avenel, then, holds no high place in the love and 
regard of his neighbours 1” said Warden. 

“ So little,” answered Halbert, “ that besides the jack-men and 
riders with whom he has associated himself, and of whom he has 
many at his disposal, I know of few who voluntarily associate 
with him. He has been more than once outlawed both by England 
and Scotland, his lands declared forfeited, and his head set at a 
price. But in these unquiet times, a man so daruig as Julian 
Avenel has ever found some friends willing to protect him against 
the penalties of the law, on condition of his secret services.” 

“ You describe a dangerous man,” replied Warden. 

“ You may have experience of that,” replied the youth, “ if you 
deal not the more warily ; — though it may be that he also has 
forsaken the community of the cliurch, and gone astray in tlic 
path of heresy.” • 

“ What your blindness terms the path of heresy,” answered tlie 
reformer, “ is indeed the straight and narrow way, wherein ho 
who walks turns not aside, whether for worldly wealth or for 
worldly passions. Would to God this man were moved by no 
other and no worse spirit tlian tliat which prompts my poor 

* It was of Lochwood, the hereditary fortress of the Johnstones of Annandale, 
a strong eastle situated in the centre of a quaking bog, tirat James Vl.made this 
remark. 


THE MONASTERY. 


224 

endeavours to extend the kingdom of Heaven ! This Baron of 
Avenel is personally unknown to me, is not of our congregation 
or of our counsel ; yet I bear to him charges touching my safety, 
from those whom he must fear if he does not respect them, and 
upon that assurance I will venture upon his hold — I am now 
sufficiently refreshed by these few minutes of repose.” 

“ Take then this advice for your safety,” said Halbert, “ and 
believe that it is founded upon the usage of this country and its 
inhabitants. If you can better shift for yourself, go not to the 
Castle of Avenel — if you do risk going thither, obtain from 
him, if possible, his safe-conduct, and beware that he swears it by 
the Black Rood — And lastly, observe whether he eats with you 
at the board, or pledges you in the cup ; for if he gives you not 
these signs of welcome, his thoughts are evil towards you.” 

Alas !” said the preacher, “ I have no better earthly refuge for 
the present than these frowning towers, but I go thither trusting 
to aid which is not of this earth — But thou, good youth, needest 
thou trust thyself in this dangerous den ?” 

“ I,” answered Halbert, “ am in no danger. I am well known 
to Christie of the Clinthill, the henchman of this Julian Avenel ; 
and, what is a yet better protection, I have nothing either to pro- 
voke malice or to tempt plunder.” 

The tramp of a steed, which clattered along the shingly banks 
of the loch, was now heard behind them ; and, when they looked 
back, a rider was visible, his steel cap and the point of his long 
lance glancing in the setting sun, as he rode rapidly towards 
chem. 

Halbert Glendinning soon recognized Christie of the Clinthill, 
and made his companion aware that the henchman of Julian 
Avenel was approaching. 

“ Ha, youngling !” said Christie to Halbert, as he came up to 
them, “ thou hast made good my word at last, and come to take 
service with my noble master, hast thou not 1 Thou shalt find 
a good friend and a true ; and ere Saint Barnaby come round 
again, thou shalt know every pass betwixt Millburn Plain and 
Netherby, as if thou hadst been born with a jack on thy back, 
and a lance in thy hand. — What old carle hast thou with thee ? 
— He is not of the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s — at least he has 
not the buist * of these black cattle.” 

“ He is a wayfaring man,” said Halbert, “ who has concerns 
with Julian of Avenel. For myself, I intend to go to Edinburgh 
to see the court and the Queen, and when I return hither we will 
talk of your profier. Meantime, as thou hast often invited me to 
the castle, I crave hospitality there to-night for myself and my 
companion.” 

“ For thyself and welcome, young comrade,” replied Christie ; 
‘‘but we harbour no pilgrims, nor aught that looks like a 
pilgrim.” 

* Buist— The brand, or mark, set upon sheep or cattle by their owners. 


THE MONASTERY. 


£25 


So please you,” said Warden, “ I have letters of commenda- 
tion to thy master from a sure friend, whom he will right willingly 
oblige in higher matters than in affording me a brief protection. — 
And I am no pilgrim, but renounce the same, with all its super- 
stitious observances.” 

He offered his letters to the horseman, who shook his head. 

“ These,” he said, “ are matters for my master, and it will be 
well if he can read them himself ; for me, sword and lance are 
my book and psalter, and have been since I was twelve years 
old. But I will guide you to the castle, and the Baron of Avcnel 
will himself judge of your errand.” 

By this time the party had reached the causeway, along which 
Christie advanced at a trot, intimating his presence to the 
warders within the castle by a shrill and peculiar whistle. At^ 
this signal the farther drawbridge was lowered. The horseman * 
passed it, and disappeared under the gloomy portal which was 
beyond it. 

Glendinning and his companion advancing more leisurely along 
the rugged causeway, stood at length under the same gateway, 
over which frowned, in dark red freestone, the ancient armorial 
bearings of the house of Avenel, which represented a female 
figure shrouded and muffled, which occupied the whole field. 
The cause of their assuming so singular a device was uncertain, 
but the figure was generally supposed to represent the mysterious 
being called the White Lady of Avenel.* The sight of this 
mouldering shield awakened in the mind of Halbert the strange 
circumstances which had connected his fate with that of Mary 
Avenel, and with the doings of the spiritual being who was 
attached to her house, and whom he saw here represented in 
stone, as he had before seen her effigy upon the seal ring of 
Walter Avenel, which, with other trinkets formerly mentioned, 
iiad been saved from pillage, and brought to Glendearg, when 
Mary’s mother was driven from her habitation. 

“ You sigh, my son,” said the old man, observing the impres- 
sion made on his youthful companion’s countenance, b^ut mistaking 
the cause ; “ if you fear to enter, we may yet return.” 

“ That can ye not,” said Christie of the ClinthiU, who emerged 
at that instant from the side-door under the archway. “ Look 
yonder, and choose whether you will return skimming the water 
like a wild-duck, or winging the air like a plover.” 

They looked, and saw that the drawbridge which they had just 
crossed was again raised, and now interposed its planks betwixt 
the setting sun and the portal of the castle, deepening the gloom 
of the arch under which they stood. Christie laughed and bid 
them follow him, saying, by way of encouragement, in Halbert’s 
car, “ Answer boldly and readily to whatever the Baron asks you. 

* There is an ancient English family, I believe, which bears, or did bear, a 
ghost or spirit passant sable in a field argent. This seems to have been a device 
of a punning or canting herald. 

X. 


p 


226 


THE MONASTERY. 


Never stop to pick your words, and above all shew no fear of 
him — the devil is not so black as he is painted.” 

As he spoke thus, he introduced them into the large stone hall, 
at the upper end of which blazed a huge fire of wood. The long 
oaken table, which, as usual, occupied the midst of the apartment, 
was covered with rude preparations for the evening meal of the 
Baron and his chief domestics, five or six of whom, strong, 
athletic, savage-looking men, paced up and down the lower end 
of the hall, which rang to the jarring clang of their long swords 
that clashed as they moved, and to the heavy tramp of their 
high-heeled jack-boots. Iron jacks, or coats of buff, formed the 
principal part of their dress, and steel-bonnets, or large slouched 
Iiats with Spanish plumes drooping backwards, were their head 
attire. 

The Baron of Avenel was one of those tall, muscular, martial 
figures, which are the favourite subjects of Salvator Rosa. He 
wore a cloak which had been once gaily trimmed, but which, by 
long wear and frequent exposure to the weather, was now faded 
in its colours. Thrown negligently about his tall person, it 
partly hid, and partly shewed, a short doublet of buff, under 
wliich was in some places risible that light shirt of mail which 
was called a secret, because worn instead of more ostensible 
armour, to protect against private assassination. A leathern 
belt sustained a large and heavy sword on one side, and on the 
other that gay poniard which had once called Sir Piercie Shafton 
master, of which the hatchments and gildings were already much 
defaced, either by rough usage or neglect. 

Notwithstanding the rudeness of his apparel, Julian Avenel’s 
manner and countenance had far more elevation than those of 
the attendants who surrounded him. He might be fifty or up- 
wards, for his dark hair was mingled with gray, but age had 
neither tamed the fire of his eye nor the enterprise of his dispo- 
sition. His countenance had been handsome, for beauty was an 
attribute of the family ; but the lines were roughened by fatigue 
and exposure to the weather, and rendered coarse by the habitual 
indulgence of violent passions. 

He seemed in deep and moody reflection, and was pacing at a 
distance from his dependents along the upper end of the hall, 
sometimes stopping from time to time to caress and feed a gos- 
hawk, which sat upon his wrist, with its jesses (i. e. the leathern 
straps fixed to its legs) wrapt aroimd his hand. The bird, which 
seemed not insensible to its master’s attention, answered his 
caresses by ruffling forward its feathers, and pecking playfully at 
his finger. At such intervals the Baron smiled, but instantly 
resumed the darksome air of suUen meditation. He did not 
even deign to look upon an object, which few could have passed 
and repassed so often without bestowing on it a transient glance. 

Tins was a woman of exceeding beauty, rather gaily than 
richly attired, who sat on a low seat close by the huge hall 


THE MONASTERY. 


227 

chimney. The gold chains round her neck and arms, — the gay 
gown of green which swept the floor, — the silver-embroidered 
girdle, with its bunch of keys, depending in housewifely pride by 
a silver chain, — the yellow silken convrechef (Scottice, curch) 
which was disposed around her head, and partly concealed her 
dark profusion of hair, — above all, the circumstance so delicately 
touched in the old ballad, that “ the girdle was too short,” the 
“ gown of green all too strait,” for the wearer’s present shape, 
would have intimated the Baron’s Lady. But then the lowly 
seat, the expression of deep melancholy, which was changed 
into a timid smile whenever she saw the least chance of catching 
the eye of Julian Avenel, — the subdued look of grief, and the 
starting tear for which that constrained smile was again exchanged 
when she saw herself entirely disregarded, — these were not the 
attributes of a wife, or they were those of a dejected and afilicted 
female, who had yielded her love on less than legitimate 
terms. 

Julian Avenel, as we have said, continued to pace the hall 
without paying any of that mute attention which is rendered to 
almost every female either by affection or courtesy. He seemed 
totally unconscious of her presence, or of that of his attendants, 
and was only roused from his own dark reflections by the notice lie 
paid to the falcon, to which, however, the lady seemed to attend, 
as if studying to find either an opportunity of speaking to the 
Baron, or of finding sometliing enigmatical in the expressions 
which he used to the bird. All this the strangers had time 
enough to remark ; for no sooner had they entered the apartment 
than their usher, Christie of the Clin thill, after exchanging a 
significant glance with the menials or troopers at the lower end 
of the apartment, signed to Halbert Glendinning and to his com- 
panion to stand stiU near the door, while he himself, advancing 
nearer the table, placed himself in such a situation as to catch 
the Baron’s observation when he should be disposed to look 
around, but without presuming to intrude himself on his master’s 
notice. Indeed, the look of this man, naturally bold, hardy, and 
audacious, seemed totally changed when he was in presence oi 
his master, and resembled the dejected and cowering manner of 
a quarrelsome dog when rebuked by his owner, or when he finds 
himself obliged to deprecate the violence of a superior adversary 
of his own species. 

In spite of the novelty of his own situation, and every painful 
feeling connected with it. Halbert felt his curiosity interested in 
the female, who sate by the chimney unnoticed and unregarded. 
He marked with what keen and trembling solicitude she watched 
the broken words of Julian, and how her glance stole towards 
him, ready to be averted upon the slightest chance of his per- 
ceiving himself to be watched. 

Meantime he went on with his dalliance with his feathered 
favourite, now giving, now withholding, the morsel with which he 


228 


THE MONASTERY 


was about to feed the bird, and so exciting its appetite and grati- 
fying it by turns. “ What ! more yet 1 — thou foul kite, thou 
wouldst never have done — give thee part thou wilt have all — 
Ay, prune thy feathers, and prink thyself gay — much thou wilt 
make of it now — dost think I know thee not 1 — dost think I see 
not that all that ruffling and pluming of wing and feathers is not 
for thy master, but to try what thou canst make of him, thou 
greedy gled ? — well — there — take it then, and rejoice thyself — 
little boon goes far with thee, and with all thy sex — and so it 
should.” 

He ceased to look on the bird, and again traversed the apart- 
ment. Then taking another small piece of raw meat from the 
trencher, on which it was placed ready cut for his use, he began 
once again to tempt and tease the bird, by offering and with- 
drawing it, until he awakened its wild and bold disposition. 
“ What ! struggling, fluttering, aiming at me with beak and 
single ? * So la ! So la ! wouldst mount ? wouldst fly ? the jesses 
are round thy clutches, fool — thou canst neither stir nor soar, 
but by my will — Beware thou come to reclaim, wench, else I 
will wring thy head off one of these days — ^ Well, have it tlien, 
and well fare thou with it. • — So ho, Jenkin !” One of the atten- 
dants stepped forward — “ Take the foul gled hence to the mew — 
or, stay ; leave her, but look well to her casting and to her 
bathing — we will see her fly to-morrow. — How now, Christie, so 
Boon returned !” 

Cliristie advanced to his master, and gave an account of him- 
self and his journey, in the way in which a police-officer holds 
communication with his magistrate, that is, as much by signs as 
by words. 

“ Noble sir,” said that worthy satelite, “ the Laird of ,” he 

named no place, but pointed with his Anger in a south-western 
direction, — “ may not ride with you the day he purposed, because 
the Lord Warden has thi’eatened that he will ” 

Here another blank, intelligibly enough made up by the speaker 
touching his own neck with his left fore-finger, and leaning his 
head a little to one side. 

“ Cowardly caitiff 1” said Julian ; ‘‘ by Heaven ! the whole 
world turns sheer naught — it is not worth a brave man’s living 
in — ye may ride a day and night, and never see a feather wave 
or hear a horse prance — the spirit of our fathers is dead amongst 
us — the very brutes are degenerated — the cattle we bring home 
at our life’s risk are mere carrion — our hawks are I’iflersf — our 
hounds are turnspits and trindle-tails — our men are women — 
and our women are ” 

He looked at the female for the first time, and stopped short in 
the midst of what he was about to say, though there was some- 

» In the kindly language of hawking, as Lady Juliana Berners terms it, hawks 
talons are called their singles. 

t So termed when they only caught their prey by the fcathcre. 


THE MONASTERY. 229 

thing so contemptuous in the glance, that the blank might have 
been thus filled up — “ Our women are such as she is.” 

He said it not, however, and, as if desirous of attracting his 
attention at all risks, and in whatever manner, she rose and cam© 
forward to him, but with a timorousness ill-disguised by afiected 
gaiety. — “Our Avomen, Juhan — what would you say of the 
vvomen 

“ Nothing,” answered Julian Avenel, “ at least nothing but 
that they are kind-hearted wenches like thyself, Kate.” The 
female coloured deeply, and returned to her seat. — “ And what 
strangers hast thou brought with thee, Christie, that stand yonder 
like two stone statues ?” said the Baron. 

“ The taller,” answered Christie, “ is, so please you, a young 
fellow called Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of the old widow 
at Glendearg.” 

“ What brings him here ?” said the Baron ; “ hath he any 
message from Mary Avenel ?” 

“Not as I think,” said Christie; “the youth is roving the 
country — he was always a wild slip, for I have known liim since 
he was the height of my sword.” 

“ What qualities hath he 1” said the Baron. 

“ All manner of qualities,” answered his follower — “ he can 
strike a buck, track a deer, fly a hawk, haloo to a hound — he 
shoots in the long and cross-bow to a hair’s-breadth — wields a 
lance or sword like myself nearly — backs a horse manfully and 
fairly — I wot not Avhat more a man need to do to make him a 
gallant companion.” 

“ And who,” said the Baron, “ is the old miser * who stands 
beside him 1” 

“ Some cast of a priest as I fancy — he says he is charged with 
letters to you.” 

“ Bid them come forward,” said the Baron ; and no sooner had 
they approached him more nearly, than, struck by the fine form 
and strength displayed by Halbert Glendinning, he addressed him 
thus: “ I am told, young swankie, that you are roaming the world 
to seek your fortune — if you will serve Julian Avenel, you may 
find it without going farther.” ’ 

“ So please you,” answered Glendinning, something has 
chanced to me that makes it better I should leave this land, 
and I am bound for Edinburgh.” 

“ What ! — thou hast stricken some of the king’s deer, I warrant, 
— or lightened the meadows of Saint Mary’s of some of their beeves 
— or thou hast taken a moonlight leap over the border 1” 

“ No, sir,” said Halbert, “ my case is entirely different.” 

“ Then I warrant thee,” said the Baron, “ thou hast stabbed 
some brother churl in a fray about a wench — thou art a hkely 
lad to wrangle in such a cause.” 

* Aliser, used in the sense in which it often occurs in gpenser, and which is 
indeed its literal import, — “ wretched old man.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


230 

Ineffably disgusted at his tone and manner, Halbert Glendin- 
ning remained silent while the thought darted across his mind, 
what would Julian Avenel have said, had he known the quarrel, 
of which he spoke so lightly, had arisen on account of his own 
brother’s daughter ! — “ But be thy cause of flight what it will,” 
said Julian, in continuation, " dost thou think the law or its emis- 
saries can foUow thee into this island, or arrest thee under the 
standard of Avenel ? — Look at the depth of the lake, the strength 
of the walls, the length of the causeway — look at my men, and 
think if they are likely to see a comrade injured, or if I, their 
master, am a man to desert a faithful follower, in good or evil. I 
tell thee, it shall be an eternal day of truce betwixt thee and 
justice, as they call it, from the instant thou hast put my colours 
into thy cap — thou shalt ride by the Warden’s nose as thou 
wouldst pass an old market-woman, and ne’er a cur wliich follows 
him shall dare to bay at thee !” 

“ I thank you for your offers, noble sir,” replied Halbert, but 
I must answer in brief, that I cannot profit by them — my fortunes 
lead me elsewhere.” 

“ Thou art a self-willed fool for thy pains,” said Julian, turning 
from him ; and signing Christie to approach, he wliispered in his 
ear, “ There is promise in that young fellow’s looks, Christie, and 
we want men of limbs and sinews so compacted — those thou hast 
brought to me of late are the mere refuse of mankind, wretches 
scarce worth the arrow that ends them : this youngster is limbed 
like Saint George. Ply him with wine and wassail — let the 
wenches weave their meshes about him like spiders — thou under- 
standest 1” Christie gave a sagacious nod of intelligence, and fell 
back to a respectful distance from his master. — “ And thou, old 
man,” said the Baron, tuiming to the elder traveller, “ hast thou 
been roaming the world after fortune too ? — it seems not she has 
fallen into thy way.” 

“ So please you,” replied Warden, “ I were perhaps more to be 
pitied than I am now, had I indeed met with that fortune, which, 
like others, I have sought in my greener days.” 

Nay, understand me, friend,” said the Baron ; if thou art 
satisfied with thy buckram gown and long staff*, I also am well 
content thou shouldst be as poor and contemptible as is good for 
the health of thy body and soul — All I care to know of thee is, 
the cause which hath brought thee to my castle, where few crows 
of thy kind care to settle. Thou art, I warrant thee, some ejected 
monk of a suppressed convent, paying in his old days the price oi 
the luxurious idleness in wliich he spent his youth. — Ay, or it 
may be some pilgrim with a budget of lies from Saint James of 
Compostella, or Our Lady of Loretto ; or thou mayest be some 
pardoner with his budget of relics from Rome, forgiving sins at 
a penny a-dozen, and one to the tale — Ay, I guess why I find 
thee in tliis boy’s company, and doubtless thou wouldst have such 
a strapping lad as he to carry thy wallet, and relieve thy lazy 


THE MONASTERY. 


231 


shoulders ; but, by the mass, I will cross thy cunning. I make 
my vow to sxm and moon, I will not see a proper lad so misleaxd 
as to run the country witli an old knave, like Simmie and his 
brother. * Away with thee !” he added, rising in wrath, and 
speaking so fast as to give no opportunity of answer, being 
probably determined to terrify the elder guest into an abrupt 
flight — Away with thee, with thy clouted coat, scrip, and scal- 
lop-shell, or, by the name of Avenel, I will have them loose the 
hounds on thee !” 

Warden waited with the greatest patience until Julian Avenel, 
astonished that the threats and violence of his language made no 
impre&sion on him, paused in a sort of wonder, and said in a less 
imperious tone, “ Why the fiend dost thou not answer me ?” 

“ When you have done speaking,” said Warden, in the same 
composed manner, " it will be full time to reply.” 

“ Say on man, in the devil’s name — but take heed — beg not 
here — were it but for the rinds of cheese, the refuse of the rats, 
or a morsel that my dogs would turn from — neither a grain of 
meal, nor the nineteenth part of a gray groat, will I give to any 
feigned liramar of thy coat.” 

^ It may be,” answered Warden, “ that you would have less 
quarrel with my coat if you knew what it covers. I am neither 
friar nor mendicant, and would be right glad to hear thy testi- 
mony against these foul deceivers of God’s church, and usurpers 
of his rights over the Christian flock, were it given in Christian 
charity.” 

“ And who or what art thou, then,” said Avenel, “ that thou 
coraest to this Border land, and art neither monk, nor soldier, 
nor broken man !” 

“ I am an humble teacher of the holy w'ord,” answei’od Warden. 
“ This letter from a most noble person will speak why I am here 
at this present time.” 

He delivered the letter to the Baron, who regarded the seal 
with some surprise, and then looked on the letter itself, which 
seemed to excite still more. He then fixed his e3'es on the stranger, 
and said, in a menacing tone, “ I think thou darest not betray 
me, or deceive me ?” 

“ I am not the man to attempt either,” was the concise reply. 

Julian Avenel carried the letter to the window, where he 
perused, or at least attempted to peruse it more than once, often 
looking from the paper and gazing on the stranger who had de- 
livered it, as if he meant to read the purport of the missive in the 
face of the messenger. Julian at length called to the female, — 
“ Catherine, bestir thee, and fetch me presently that letter which 
I bade thee keep ready at hand in thy casket, having no sux’e 
lockfast place of my own.” 

Catherine went with the readiness of one willing to be em- 

* Two qufTstionarii, or begging friars, whose accoutrements and roguery 
maJee tile subject of an old Scottish satirical poem. 


THE MONASTERY. 


*>32 

ployed } and as she walked, the situation wftich requires a wider 
gown and a longer girdle, and in which woman claims from man 
la double portion of the most anxious care, was still moi’e visible 
than before. She soon returned with the paper, and was rewarded 
with a cold — “ I thank thee, wench ; thou art a careful secretary.’^ 

This second paper he also perused and reperused more than 
once, and still, as he read it, bent from time to time a wary and 
observant eye upon Henry Warden. This examination and re- 
examination, though both the man and the place were dangerous, 
the preacher endured with the most composed and steady coun- 
tenance, seeming, under the eagle, or rather the vulture eye of 
the Baron, as unmoved as under the gaze of an ordinary and 
peaceful peasant. At length Julian Avenel folded both papers, 
and having put them into the pocket of his cloak, cleared his 
brow, and, coming forward, addressed his female companion. 
“ Catherine,” said he, “ I have done this good man injustice, 
when I mistook him for one of the drones of Rome. He is a 
preacher, Catherine — a preacher of the — the new doctrine of 
the Lords of the Congregation.” 

“ The doctrine of the blessed Scriptures,” said the preacher, 
“ purified from the devices of men.” 

" Sayest thou ?” said Julian Avenel — Well, thou mayst call 
call it what thou lists ; but to me it is recommended, because it 
flings off* all those sottish dreams about saints and angels and 
devils, and unhorses the lazy monks that have ridden us so long, 
and spm’-galled us so hard. No more masses and corpse-gifts — 
no more tithes and offerings to make men poor — no more prayers 
or psalms to make men cowards — no more christenings and 
penances, and confessions and marriages.” 

“ So please you,” said Henry Warden, “ it is against the cor- 
ruptions, not against the fundamental doctrines, of the church, 
which we desire to renovate, and not to abolish.” 

“ Prithee, peace, man,” said the Baron ; “ we of the laity care 
not what you set up, so you pull merrily down what stands in our 
way. Specially it suits well with us of the Southland fells ; for it 
is our profession to turn the world upside down, and wo live ever 
the blithest life when the downer side is uppermost.” 

Warden would have replied ; but the Baron allowed him not 
time, striking the table with the hilt of his dagger, and crying 
out, — “ Ha ! you loitering knaves, bring our supper-meal quickly. 
See you not this holy man is exhausted for lack of food ! Heard 
ye ever of priest or preacher that devoured not his five meals 
a-day ?” 

The attendants bustled to and fro, and speedily brought in 
several large smoking platters, filled with huge pieces of beef, 
boiled and roasted, but without any variety whatsoever ; without 
vegetables, and almost witliout bread, though there was at the 
upper end a few oat-cakes in a basket. Julian Avenel made a 
sort of apology to Warden. 


THE MONASTERY. 233 

“ You have been commended to our care, Sir Preacher, since 
that is your style, by a person whom we higlily honour.” 

“ T am assured,” said Warden, “ that the most noble Lord ” 

“ Prithee, peace, man,” said Avenel ; “ what need of naming 
names, so we understand each other ? I meant but to speak in 
reference to your safety and comfort, of which he desires us to be 
chary. Now, for your safety, look at my walls and water. But 
touching your comfort, we have no corn of our own, and the 
meal-girucls of the south are less easily transported than their 
beeves, seeing they have no legs to walk upon. But what though ? 
a stoup of wine thou shalt have, and of the best — thou shalt sit 
betwixt Catherine and me at the board-end. — And, Christie, do 
thou look to the young springald, and call to the cellarer for a 
flagon of the best.” 

The Baron took his wonted place at the upper end of the 
board ; his Catherine sate down, and courteously pointed to a seat 
betwixt them for their reverend guest. But notwithstanding the 
influence both of hunger and fatigue, Henry Warden retained his 
standing posture. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Wlion lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray 

« » * * * 


Julian Avenel saw with surprise the demeanour of the reve- 
rend stranger. “ Beshrew me,” he said, these new-fashioned 
religioners have fast-days, T Avarrant me — the old ones used to 
confer these blessings chiefly on the laity.” 

“We acknowledge no such rule,” said the preacher — “ We 
hold that our faith consists not in using or abstaining from special 
meats on special days ; and in fasting Ave rend our hearts, and 
not our garments.” 

“ The better — the better for yourselves, and the worse for Tom 
Tailoi*,” said the Baron ; “ but come, sit down, or, if thou needs 
must e’en give us a cast of thy office, mutter thy charm.” 

“ Sir Baron,” said the preacher, “ I am in a strange land, 
where neither mine office nor my doctrine are knoAvn, and Avhere, 
it would seem, both are greatly misunderstood. It is my duty so 
to bear me, that in my person, hoAvever unAvorthy, my Master’s 
dignity may be respected, and that sin may take no confidence 
from relaxation of the bonds of discipline.” 

“ Ho la ! halt there,” said the Baron ; “ thou Avert sent hither 
for thy safety, but not, I think, to preach to, or control me. 
What is it thou Avouldst haA^e, Sir Preacher ? Remember thou 
speakest to one someAvhat short of patience, wdio loves a short 
health and a long draught.” 


234 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ In a word, then,” said Henry Warden, that lady ” 

“How?” said the Baron, starting — “what of her? — what 
hast thou to say of that dame ?” 

“ Is she thy house-dame ?” said the preacher, after a moment’s 
pause, in w’hich he seemed to seek for the best mode of expressing 
what he had to say — “ Is she, in brief, thy wdfe ?” 

The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands on her 
face, as if to hide it, but the deep blusli which crimsoned her 
brow and neck, shewed that her cheeks w'ere also glowing ; and 
tlie bursting tears, which found their w'ay betwixt her slender 
lingers, bore witness to her sorrow’, as well as to her shame. 

“ Now, by my father’s ashes ! ” said the Baron, rising and 
spurning from him his footstool with such violence, that it hit the 
wall on the opposite side of the apartment — then instanly con- 
straining himself, he muttered, “ What need to run myself into 
trouble for a fool’s word ?” — then resuming his seat, he answered 
coldly and scornfully — “ No, Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Cathe- 
rine is not my wife — Cease thy whimpering, thou foolish w’ench 
— she is not my wife, but she is handfasted with me, and that 
makes her as honest a woman.” 

“ Handfasted ?” — repeated Warden. 

“ Knowest thou not that rite, holy man ?” said Avenel, in the 
same tone of derision ; “ then I will tell thee. We Border-men 
are more wary than your inland clowns of Fife and Lothian — no 
jump in the dark for us — no clenching the fetters around our 
Wrists till we know how they will wear with us — we take our 
wives, like our horses, upon trial. When we are handfasted, as 
we terra it, we are man and wife for a year and day — that space 
gone by, each may choose another mate, or, at their pleasure, may 
call the priest to marry them for life — and this we call hand- 
fasting.” * 

“ Then,” said the preacher, “ I tell thee, noble Baron, in bro- 
therly love to thy soul, it is a custom licentious, gross, and cor- 
rupted, and, if persisted in, dangerous, yea, damnable. It binds 
thee to the frailer being while she is the object of desire — it 
relieves thee when she is most the subject of pity — it gives all 
to brutal sense, and nothing to generous and gentle affection. I 
say to thee, that he who can medibite the breach of such an 
engagement, abandoning the deluded woman and the helpless 
offspring, is worse than the birds of prey ; for of them the males 
remain with their mates until the nestlings can take wing. Above 
all, I say it is contrary to the pure Christian doctrine, which 
assigns w'oman to man as the partner of his labour, the soother of 
his evil, his helpmate in peril, his friend in affliction ; not as tlio 

* This custom of handfasting actually prevailed in the upland days. It arose 
partly from the want of priests. While the convents subsisted, monks were de- 
tiichcd on regular circuits through the wilder districts, to marry those who had 
lived in this species of connection. A practice of the same kind existed in the 
Isle of Portland. 


TIIE MONASTERY. 


236 

toy of his looser hours, or as a flower, which, once cropped, he may 
throw aside at pleasure.” 

“ Now, by the Saints, a most virtuous homily !” said the Baron ; 
“ quaintly conceived and curiously pronounced, and to a well- 
chosen congregation. Hark ye. Sir Gospeller ! trow ye to have a 
fool in hand ? Know I not that your sect rose by bluff Harry 
Tudor, merely because ye aided him to change Ms Kate ; and 
wherefore should I not use the same Christian liberty with inine f 
Tush, man ! bless the good food, and meddle not with what con- 
cerns thee not — thou hast no gull in Julian Avenel.” 

“ He hath gulled and cheated himself,” said the preacher, 
“ should he even incline to do that poor sharer of his domestic 
cares the imperfect justice that remains to him. Can he now 
raise her to the rank of a pure and uncontaminated matron 1 — 
Can he deprive his child of the misery of owing birth to a mother 
who has erred ? He can indeed give them both the rank, the 
state of married wife and of lawful son ; but, in public opinion, 
their names will be smirched and sullied with a stain which his 
tardy efforts cannot entirely efface. Yet render it to them, 
Baron of Avenel, render to them this late and imperfect justice. 
Bid me bind you together for ever, and celebrate the day of your 
bridal, not with feasting or wassail, but with sorrow for past sin, 
and the resolution to commence a better life. Happy then will 
liave the chance been that has drawn me to this castle, though 1 
come driven by calamity, and unknowing where my course is 
bound, like a leaf travelling on the north wind.” 

The plain, and even coarse features, of the zealous speaker, 

• ere warmed at once and ennobled by the dignity of his enthu- 
asm ; and the wild Baron, lawless as he was, and accustomed to 
purn at the control whether of religious or moral law, felt, for 
he first time perhaps in his life, that he was under subjection to 
i mind superior to his own. He sat mute and suspended in his 
leliberations, hesitating betwixt anger and shame, yet borne 
down by the weight of the just rebuke thus boldly fulminated 
against him. 

The unfortunate young woman, conceiving hopes from her 
tyrant’s silence and apparent indecision, forgot both her fear and 
shame in her timid expectation that Avenel would relent ; and 
fixing upon him her anxious and beseeching eyes, gradually drew 
near and nearer to his seat, till at length, laying a trembling 
hand on his cloak, she ventured to utter, “ 0 noble Julian, listen 
to the good man !” 

The speech and the motion were ill-timed, and wTOught on that 
proud and wayward spirit the reverse of her wishes. 

The fierce Baron started up in fury, exclaiming, “ What ! thou 
foolish caUet, art thou confederate with this strolling vagabond, 
whom thou hast seen beard me in mine own hall ! lienee with 
thee, and think that I am proof both to male and female hypo- 
crisy 1” 


THE MONASTERY 


236 

The poor girl started back, astounded at his voice of thunder 
and looks of fury, and, turning pale as death, endeavoured to obey 
his orders, and tottered towards the door. Her limbs failed in 
the attempt, and she fell on the stone floor in a manner which her 
situation might have rendered fatal — The blood gushed from her 
face. — Halbert Glendinning broolced not a sight so brutal, but, 
uttering a deep imprecation, started from liis seat, and laid his 
hand on his sword, under the strong impulse of passing it through 
the body of the cruel and hard-hearted ruffian. But Christie of 
the Clinthill, guessing his intention, threw his arms around him, 
and prevented him from stirring to execute his purpose. 

The impulse to such a dangerous act of violence was indeed 
but momentary, as it instantly appeared that Avenel himself, 
shocked at the effects of his violence, was lifting up and endea- 
vouring to soothe in his own way the terrifled Catherine. 

“ Peace,” he said, “ prithee, peace, thou silly minion — wdiy, 
Kate, though I listen not to this tramping preacher, I said not 
what might happen an thou dost bear me a stout boy. There — 
there — dry thy tears — call thy women. — So ho! — where be 
these queans % — Christie — Rowley — Hutcheon — drag them 
hither by the hair of the head !” 

A half dozen of startled wild-looking females rushed into the 
room, and bore out her who might be either termed their mistress 
or their companion. She shewed little sign of life, except by 
groaning faintly and keeping her hand on her side. 

No sooner had this luckless female been conveyed from the 
apartment, than the Baron, advancing to the table, filled and 
di’ank a deep goblet of wine ; then, putting an obvious restraint 
on his passions, turned to the preacher, who stood horror-struck 
at the scene he had witnessed, and said, You have borne too 
hard on us, Sir Preacher — but coming with the commendations 
which you have brought me, I doubt not but your meaning was 
good. But we are a wilder folk than you inland men of Fife and 
Lothian. Be advised, therefore, by me — Spur not an unbroken 
horse — put not your ploughshare too deep into new land — Preach 
to us spiritual liberty, and we will hearken to you. — But we will 
give no way to spiritual bondage. — Sit, therefore, down, and 
pledge me in old sack, and we will talk over other matters.” 

“ It is from spiritual bondage,” said the preacher, in the same 
tone of admonitory reproof, “ that I came to deliver you — it is 
from a bondage more fearful than that of the heaviest earthly 
gyves — it is from your owm evil passions.” 

“ Sit down,” said Avenel, fiercely ; sit down while the play is 

good — else by my father’s crest and my mother’s honoxu' ! ” 

Now,” whispered Christie of the Clinthill to Halbert, “ if he 
refuse to sit down, I would not give a gray groat for his head.” 

“ Lord Baron,” said Warden, ‘‘ thou hast placed me in 
extremity. But if the question be, whether I am to hide the 
light which I am commanded to shew forth, or to lose the light 


THE MONASTERY. 


237 

of this world, my choice is made. I say to thee, like the Holy 
Baptist to Herod, it is not lawful for thee to have this woman ; 
and I say it, though bonds and death be the consequence, count- 
ing my life as nothing in comparison of the ministry to which I 
am called.” 

Julian Avenel, enraged at the firmness of this reply, flung from 
his right hand the cup in which he was about to drink to his 
guest, and from the other cast off the hawk, which flew wildly 
through the apartment. His first motion was to lay hand upon 
his dagger. But, changing his resolution, he exclaimed, “ To the 
dungeon with this insolent stroller ! — I will hear no man speak 
a word for him. — Look to the falcon, Christie, thou fool — an she 
escape, I will despatch you after her every man — Away with that 
hypocritical dreamer — drag him hence if he resist !” 

He ^ was obeyed in both points. Christie of the Clinthill 
arrested the hawk’s flight, by putting his foot on her jesses, and 
BO holding her fast, while Henry Warden was led off, without 
having shewn the slightest symptoms of terror, by two of the 
Baron’s satellites. Julian Avenel walked the apartment for a 
short time in sullen silence, and despatching one of his attendants 
with a whispered message, which probably related to the health 
of the unfortunate Catherine, he said aloud, “ These rash and 
meddling priests — By Heaven ! they make us worse than w’e 
would be without them.” * 

The answer which he presently received seemed somewhat to 
pacify his angry mood, and he took his place at the board, com- 
manding his retinue to do the like. All sat down in silence, and 
began the repast. 

During the meal Christie in vain attempted to engage his 
youthful companion in carousal, or, at least, in conversation. 
Halbert Glendinning pleaded fatigue, and expressed himself 
unwilling to take any liquor stronger than the heather ale, which 
was at that time frequently used at meals. Thus every effort at 
jovialty died away, until the Baron, striking his hand against the 
table, as if impatient of the long unbroken silence, cried out aloud, 
“ What, ho ! my masters — are ye Border-riders, and sit as mute 
over your meal as a mess of monks and friars 1 — Some one 
sing, if no one list to speak. Meat eaten without either mirth or 
music is ill of digestion. — Louis,” he added, speaking to one of 
the youngest of his followers, “ thou art ready enough to sing when 
no one bids thee.” 

The young man looked first at his master, then up to the arched 
roof of the hall, then drank off the horn of ale, or wine, which 
stood beside him, and with a rough, yet not unmelodious voice, 
sung the following ditty to the ancient air of “ Blue Bonnets over 
the Border.” 


See Note I. Julian Avend. 


2S8 


THE MONASTERY. 


I. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdalc, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order 

March, march, Eskdafe and Liddes<lale, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread. 

Flutters above your head. 

Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready then. 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory! 

II. 

Come from the hills where the hirscls are grazing. 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing. 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding. 

War-steeds are bounding. 

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, 

England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border I 

The song, rude as it was, had in it that warlike character which 
at any other time would have roused Halbert’s spirit ; but at 
present the charm of minstrelsy had no effect upon him. He 
made it his request to Christie to suffer him to retire to rest, a 
request with which that worthy person, seeing no chance of 
making a favourable impression on liis intended proselyte in his 
present humour, was at length pleased to comply. But no 
Sergeant Kite, who ever practised the profession of recruiting, 
was more attentive that his object should not escape him, than 
was Christie of the Clinthill. He indeed conducted Halbert 
Glendinning to a small apartment overlooking the lake, which was 
accommodated with a truckle bed. But before quitting him, 
Christie took special care to give a look to the bars which crossed 
the outside of the window, and when he left the apartment, he 
failed not to give the key a double turn ; circumstances which 
convinced young Glendinning that there was no intention of 
suffering him to depart from the Castle of Avenel at his own time 
and pleasure. He judged it, however, most prudent to let these 
alarming symptoms pass without observation. 

No sooner did he find himself in undisturbed solitude, than he 
ran rapidly over the events of the day in his recollection, and to 
his surprise found that his own precarious fate, and even the 
death of Piercie Shafton, made less impression on him than the 
singularly bold and determined conduct of his companion, Henry 
Warden. Providence, which suits its instruments to the encf 
they are to achieve, had awakened in the cause . of Reformation 
in Scotland, a body of preachers of more energy than refinement, 
bold in spirit, and strong in faith, contemners of whatever stood 
betwixt them and their principal object, and seeking the advance- 
ment of the great cause in which they laboured by tlie roughest 


THE MONASTERY. 


239 

road, provided it were the shortest. The soft breeze may 
wave the willow, but it requires the voice of the tempest to 
agitate the boughs of the oak ; and, accordingly, to milder hearers, 
2Uid in a less rude age, their mannei’s would have been ill adapted, 
but they were singularly successful in their mission to the rude 
people to whom it was addressed. 

Owing to these reasons, Halbert Glendinning, who had resisted 
and repelled the arguments of the preacher, was forcibly struck by 
the firmness of his demeanour in the dispute with Julian AveneL 
It might be discourteous, and most certainly it was incautious, to 
choose such a place and such an audience, for upbraiding Avith 
his transgressions a baron, whom both manners and situation 
placed in full possession of independent power. But the conduct 
of the preacher was uncompromising, firm, manly, and obviously 
grounded upon the deepest conviction which duty and principle 
could afford ; and Glendinning, who had viewed the conduct of 
Avenel with the deepest abhorrence, was proportionally interested 
in the brave old man, who had ventured life rather than withhold 
the censure due to guilt. This pitch of virtue seemed to him to 
be in religion what was demanded by chivalry of her votai-ies in 
war ;*an absolute surrender of all selfish feelings, and a combina- 
tion of every energy proper to the human mind, to discharge the 
task which duty demanded. 

Halbert was at the period when youth was most open to gene- 
rous emotions, and knows best how to appreciate them in others, 
and he felt, although he hardly knew why, that, whether catholic 
or heretic, the safety of this man deeply interested him. Curio- 
sity mingled with the feeling, and led him to wonder what the 
nature of those doctrines could be, which stole their votary so 
completely from himself, and devoted him to chains or to death 
as their sworn champion. He had indeed been told of saints and 
martyrs of former days, who had braved for their religious faith 
the extremity of death and torture. But their spirit of enthu- 
siastic devotion had long slept in the ease and indolent habits of 
their successors, and their adventures, like those of knights-errant, 
were rather read for amusement tlian for edification. A new 
impulse had been necessary to rekindle the energies of religious 
zeal, and that impulse was now operating in favour of a purer 
religion, with one of whose steadiest votaries the youth had now 
met for the first time. 

The sense that he himself was a prisoner, under the power of 
this savage chieftain, by no means diminished Halbert’s interest 
in tlie fate of his fellow-sufferer, while he determined at the same 
time so far to emulate his fortitude, that neither threats nor suf- 
fering should compel him to enter into the service of such a 
master. The possibility of escape next occurred to him, and 
though with little hope of efiecting it in that way, Glendinning 
proceeded to examine more particularly the window of the apart- 
ment, The apartment was situated in the first story of tho 


240 


THE MONASTERY. 


castle ; and was not so far from the rock on which It w'a/3 
founded, but that an active and bold man might with little 
assistance descend to a shelf of the rock which was immediately 
below the window, and from thence either leap or drop himself 
down into the lake which lay before his eye, clear and blue in 
the placid light of a full summer’s moon. — “ Were I once placed 
on that ledge,” thought Glendinning, Julian Avenel and Christie 
had seen the last of me.” The size of the window favoured such 
an attempt, but the stanchions or iron bars seemed to form an 
insurmountable obstacle. 

While Halbert Glendinning gazed from the window with that 
eagerness of hope which was prompted by the energy of his 
character and his determination not to yield to circumstances, his 
ear caught some sounds from below, and listening with more 
attention, he could distinguish the voice of the preacher engaged 
in his solitary devotions. To open a correspondence with him 
became immediately his object, and failing to do so by less marked 
sounds, he at length ventured to speak, and was answered from 
beneath — Is it thou, my son ?” The voice of the prisoner 
now sounded more distinctly than when it was first heard, for 
Warden had approached the small aperture, which, serving his 
prison for a window, opened just betwixt the wall and the rock, 
and admitted a scanty portion of light through a wall of immense 
thickness. This soupirail being placed exactly under Halbert’s 
window, the contiguity permitted the prisoners to converse in a 
low tone, when Halbert declared his intention to escape, and the 
possibility he saw of achieving his purpose, but for the iron 
stanchions of the window — “ Prove thy strength, my son, in the 
name of God !” said the preacher. Halbert obeyed Iiim more in 
despair than hope, but to his great astonishment, and somewhat 
to his terror, the bar parted asunder near the bottom, and the 
longer part being easily bent outwards, and not secured with lead 
in the upper socket, dropt out into Halbert’s hand. He imme- 
diately whispered, but as energetically as a whisper could be 
expressed — “ By Heaven, the bar has given Avay in my hand !” 

“ Thank Heaven, my son, instead of swearing by it,” answered 
Warden from his dungeon. 

With little effort Halbert Glendinning forced himself through 
the opening thus wonderfully effected, and using his Icathei'u 
sword-belt as a rope to assist him, let himself safely drop on tlie 
shelf of rock upon which the preacher’s window opened. But 
through this no passage could be effected, being scarce larger 
than a loophole for musketry, and apparently constructed for 
that purpose. 

“ Are there no means by which I can assist your escape, my 
father ?” said Halbert. 

“ There are none, my son,” answered the preacher ; “ but if 
thou wilt ensure my safety, that may be in thy power.” 

** I will labour earnestly for it,” said the youth 


THE MONASTERY. 


241 

“ Take then a letter which I will presently write, for I have 
the means of light and writing materials in my scrip — Hasten 
towards Edinburgh, and on the way thou wilt meet a body of 
horse marching southwards — Give this to their leader, and 
acquaint him of the state in which thou hast left me. It may hap 
that thy doing so will advantage thyself.” 

In a minute or two the light of a taper gleamed through the 
shot-hole, and very shortly after, the preacher, with the assis- 
tance of his staff, pushed a billet to Glendinning through the 
window. 

“ God bless thee, my son,” said the old man, “ and complete 
the marvellous work which he has begun.” 

“ Amen !” answered Halbert, with solemnity, and proceeded 
on his enterprise. 

He hesitated a moment whether he should attempt to descend 
to the edge of the water; but the steepness of the rock, and 
darkness of the night, rendered the enterprise too dangerous. 
He clasped his hands above his head and boldly sprung from 
the precipice, shooting himself forward into the air as far as he 
could for fear of sunken rocks, and alighted on the lake, head 
foremost, with such force as sunk him for a minute below the 
surface. But strong, long-breathed, and accustomed to such 
exercise. Halbert, even though encumbered with his sword, dived 
and rose like a sea-fowl, and swam across the lake in the 
northern direction. When he landed and looked back on the 
castle, he could observe that the alarm had been given, for lights 
glanced from window to window, and he heard the drawbridge 
lowered, and the tread of horses’ feet upon the causeway. But, 
little alarmed for the consequence of a pursuit during the dark- 
ness, he wrung the water from his dress, and, plunging into the 
moors, directed his course to the north-east by the assistance of 
the polar star. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


^V^ly, what an intricate impeach is this ! 

I think you all have drank of Circe’s cup. 

If here you housed him, here he would have been ; 

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly. 

Comedy of Err oi's. 

The course of our story, leaving for the present Halbert 
Glendinning to the guidance of his courage and his fortune, 
returns to the Tower of Glendearg, where matters in the mean- 
while fell out, with which it is most fitting that the reader should 
be acquainted. 

The meal was prepared at noontide with all the care which 
Elspeth and Tibb, assisted by the various accommodations which 
had been supplied from the Monastery, could bestow on it. Their 

VOL. X. o 


242 


THE MONASTERY. 


dialogue ran on as usual in the intervals of their labour, partly as 
between mistress and servant, partly as maintained by gossips of 
nearly equal quality. 

“ Look to the minced meat, Tibb,” said Elspeth ; “ and turn 
the broach even, thou good-for-nothing Simmie, — thy wits are 
harrying birds’ nests, cliild. — Weel, Tibb, this is a fasheous job, 
this Sir Piercie lying leaguer with us up here, and wha kens for 
how lang 1” 

“ A fasheous job indeed,’* answered her faithful attendant, 

and little good did the name ever bring to fair Scotland. Ye 
may have your hands fuller of them than they are yet — Mony a 
sair heart have the Piercies given to Scots wife and bairns with 
their pricking on the Borders. There was Hotspur, and many 
more of that bloody Idndred, have sate in our skirts since Mal- 
colm’s time, as Martin says !” 

“ Martin should keep a weel-scrapit tongue in his head,” said 
Elspeth, “ and not slander the kin of any body that quarters at 
Glendearg ; forby, that Sir Piercie Shafton is much respected 
with the holy fathers of the community, and they Avill make up to 
us ony fasherie that we may have with him, either by good word 
or good deed, I’se warrant them. He is a considerate lord the 
Lord Abbot.” 

“ And weel he likes a saft seat to his hinder end,” said Tibb ; 
“ I have seen a belted bai’on sit on a bare bench, and find nao 
fault. But an ye are pleased, mistress, I am pleased.” 

“Now, in good time, here comes Mysie of the Mill. — Anu 
whare hae ye been, lass, for a’s gane wrang without you 1” said 
Elspeth. 

“ I just gaed a blink up the bum,” said Mysie, “ for the young 
lady has been dowm on her bed, and is no just tlrat weel — So I 
gaed a glifF up the burn.” 

“ To see the young lads come harae frae the sport, I will -war- 
rant you,” said Elspeth. “Ay, ay, Tibb, that’s the way tlie 
young folk guide us, Tibbie — leave us to do the wark, and out to 
the play themsells.” 

“Ne’er a bit of that, mistress,” said the Maid of the ]\Iill, 
stripping her round pretty arms, and looking actively and good- 
humouredly round for some duty that she could discharge, “ but 
just — I thought ye might like to ken if they were coming back, 
just to get the dinner forward.” 

“ And saw ye ought of them then ?” demanded Elspeth. 

“ Not the least tokening,” said Mysie, “ though I got to the 
head of a knowe, and though the English knight’s beautiful white 
feather could have been seen over all the bushes in the Shaw.” 

“ The knight’s white feather !” said Dame Glendinning ; “ ye 
are a silly hempie — my Halbert’s high head will be seen farther 
than his feather, let it be as -white as it like, I trow.” 

Mysie made no answer, but began to knead dough for wastel- 
oake with all despatch, observing that Sir Piercie had partaken of 


THE .MONASTERY. 


245 


that daintv, and commended it upon the preceding day. And 
presently, in order to place on the fire the girdle, or iron plate on 
which these cakes were to he haked, she displaced a stew-pan in 
which some of Tibb’s delicacies were submitted to the action of 
the kitchen fire. Tibb muttered betwixt lier teeth — “ And it is 
the broth for my sick bairn, that maun make room for the dainty 
Southron’s wastel-bread. It was a blithe time in Wight Wallace’s 
day, or good King Robert’s, when the pock-puddings gat naething 
here but hard straiks and bloody crowns. Rut Ave will see how it 
will a’ end.” 

Elspeth did not think it proper to notice these discontented 
expressions of Tibbie, but they sunk into her mind ; for she was 
apt to consider her as a sort of authority in mattei*s of war and 
policy, with which her former experience as bower-woman at 
Avcnel Castle made her better acquainted than were the j)eaceful 
inhabitants of the Halidome. She only spoke, howevei*, to express 
her surprise that the hunters did not return. 

“ An they come not back the sooner,” said Tibb, “ they will 
fare the waur, for the meat will be roasted to a cinder — and there 
is poor Simmie that can turn the spit nae langer : the bairn is 
limiting like an icicle in warm water — Gang awa, bairn, and take 
a mouthful of the caller air, and T will turn the broach till ye 
come back.” 

“ Rin up to the bartizan at the tower -head, callant,” said Dame 
Glendinning, “ the air will be callerer there than ony gate else, 
and bring us word if our Halbert and the gentleman are coming 
down the glen.” 

The boy lingered long enough to allow his substitute, Tibb 
Tacket, heartily to tire of her own generosity, and of his cricket- 
stool by the side of a huge fire. He at length returned with the 
news that he had seen nobody. 

The matter was not remarkable so far as Halbert Glendinning 
Avas concerned, for, patient alike of Avant and of fatigue, it Avas no 
uncommon circumstance for him to remain in the Avilds till cur- 
fcAV time. But nobody had given Sir Piercie Shafton credit for 
being so keen a sportsman, and the idea of an Englishman pre- 
ferring the chase to his dinner Avas altogether inconsistent Avith 
their preconceptions of the national character. Amidst AV'onder- 
ing and conjecturing, the usual dinner-hour passed long away ; 
and the inmates of the toAver, taking a hasty meal themselves, 
adjourned their more solemn preparRions until the hunters’ 
return at night, since it seemed noAv certain that their sport had 
either carried them to a greater distance, or engaged them for a 
longer time than had been expected. 

About four houre after noon, arrived, not the expected sports- 
nu-n, but an unlocked for visitant, the Sub-Prior from the Mon- 
astery. The scene of the preceding day had dAvelt on the mind 
of Father Eustace, who was of that keen and penetrating cast of 
mind whicli lores not to leave unascertained Avhatever oi mystc- 


THE MONASTERY. 


244 

rious is subjected to its inquiry. His kindness was interested in 
the family of Glendearg, which he had now known for a long 
time ; and besides, the community was interested in the preser- 
vation of the peace betwixt Sir Piercie Shafton and his youthful 
host, since whatever might draw public attention on the former, 
could not fail to be prejudicial to the Monastei'y, which was 
already threatened by the hand of power. He found the family 
assembled all but Mary Avenel, and was informed that Halbert 
Glendinning had accompanied the stranger on a day’s sport. So 
far was well. They had not returned ; but when did youth and 
sport conceive themselves bound by set hours ? and the circum- 
stance excited no alarm in his mind. 

While he was conversing with Edward Glendinning touching 
his progi’css in the studies he had pointed out to him, they wore 
startled by a shi’iek from Mary Avenel’s apartment, which drew 
the whole family thither in headlong haste. They found her in a 
swoon in the arms of old Martin, who was bitterly accusing him- 
self of having killed her ; so indeed it seemed, for her pale 
features and closed eyes argued rather a dead corpse than a living 
person. The whole family were instantly in tumult. Snatching 
her from Martin’s arms with the eagerness of affectionate terror, 
Edward bore her to the casement, that she might I’eceive the 
influence of the open air ; the Sub-Prior, who, like many of 
his profession, had some knowledge of medicine, hastened to 
prescribe the readiest remedies which occurred to him, and 
the terrified females contended with, and impeded each other, in 
their rival efforts to bo useful. 

“ It has been ane of her weary ghaists,” said Dame Glendinning. 

“It’s just a trembling on her spirits, as her blessed mother 
used to have,” said Tibb. 

“It’s some ill news has come ower her,” said the miller’s 
maiden ; Avhile burnt feathers, cold water, and all the usual means 
of restoring suspended animation, were employed alternately, and 
with little effect. 

At length a new assistant, who had joined the group unobserved, 
tendered his aid in the following tei’ms : — “ How is this, my most 
fair Discretion ? What cause hath moved the ruby current of 
life to rush back to the citadel of the heart, leaving pale those 
features in which it should have delighted to meander for over I 
— Let me approach her,” he said, “ with this sovei’eign essence, 
distilled by the fair hands of the divine Ui’ania, and powerful to 
recall fugitive life, even if it were trembling on the verge of de- 
parture.” 

Thus speaking. Sir Piercie Shafton knelt down, and most 
gracefully presented to the nostrils of Mary Avenel a silver 
pouncet-box, exquisitely chased, containing a sponge dipt in the 
essence which he recommended so highly. Yes, gentle reader, 
it was Sir Piercie Shafton himself who thus unexpectedly prof- 
fered his good offices ! his cheeks, indeed, very pale, and some 


THE MONASTERY. 


245 

part of his dress stained with blood, but not otherwise appearing 
different from what he was on the preceding evening. But no 
sooner had Mary Avenel opened her eyes, and fixed them on the 
figure of the officious courtier, than she screamed faintly, and 
exclaimed, — “ Secure the murderer !” 

Those present stood aghast with astonishment, and none more 
so than the Euphuist, who found himself so suddenly and so 
strangely accused by the patient whom he was endeavouring to 
succour, and who repelled his attempts to yield her assistance 
with all the energy of abhorrence. 

“ Take him away !” she exclaimed — take away the murderer !” 

“ Now, by my knighthood,” answered Sir Piercie, “ your 
lovely faculties either of mind or body are, 0 my most fair Discre- 
tion, obnubilated by some strange hallucination. For either your 
eyes do not discern that it is Piercie Shafton, your most devoted 
Affability, who now stands before you, or else, your eyes discern- 
ing truly, your mind hath most erroneously concluded that he 
hath been guilty of some delict or violence to which his hand is a 
stranger. No murder, 0 most scornful Discretion, hath been 
this day done, saving but that which your angry glances arc now 
performing on your most devoted captive.” 

He was here interrupted by the Sub-Prior, who had, in the 
meantime, been speaking with Martin apart, and had received 
from him an account of the circumstances, which, suddenly com- 
municated to Mary Avenel, had thrown her into this state. “ Sir 
Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, in a very solemn tone, yet with 
some hesitation, “ circumstances have been communicated to us 
of a nature so extraordinary, that, reluctant as I am to exercise 
such authority over a guest of our venerable community, I am 
constrained to request from you an explanation of them. You 
left this tower early in the morning, accompanied by a youth, 
Halbert Glcndinning, the eldest son of this good dame, and you 
return hither without him. Where, and at what hoiu’, did you 
part company from him V’ 

The English knight paused for a moment, and then replied, — 

I marvel that your reverence employs so grave a tone to en- 
force so light a question. I parted with the villagio whom you call 
Halbert Glendinning some hour or twain after sunrise.” 

“ And at what place, I pray you 1” said the monk. 

‘‘In a deep raivne, where a fountain rises at the base of a huge 
rock ; an eartli-born Titan, which heaveth up its gray head, even 
as ” 

“ Spare us farther description,” said the Sub-Prior ; “we know 
the spot. But that youth hath not since been heard of, and it will 
fall on you to account for him.” 

“ My bairn! my bairn!” exclaimed Dame Glendinning. “ Yes, 
holy father, make the villain account for my bairn !” 

“ I swear, good woman, by bread and by water, wlvlch are the 
props of our life ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


‘24G 

“ Swear by wine and wastel-bread, for these are the props of 
thy life, thou greedy Southron !” said Dame Glendinnihg ; — “a 
base belly-god, to come here to eat the best, and practise on our 
lives tliat give it to him !” 

‘‘ I tell thee, woman,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ I did but go 
with thy son to the hunting.” 

“ A black hunting it has been to him, poor bairn,” replied Tibb; 
‘^and sae I said it wad prove since I first saw the false Southron 
snout of thee. Little good comes of a Piercie’s hunting, from 
Chevy Chase till now.” 

“ Be silent, woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and rail not upon 
the English knight; we do not yet know of any thing beyond sus- 
picion.” 

“ We will have his heart’s blood !” said Dame Glendinning ; 
and, seconded by the faithful Tibbie, she made such a sudden 
onslaught on the unlucky Euphuist, as must have terminated in 
something serious, had not the monk, aided by Mysie Happer, 
interposed to protect him from their fury. Edward had left the 
apartment the instant the disturbance broke out, and now entered, 
sword in hand, followed by Martin and Jasper, the one having a 
hunting spear in his hand, the otlier a cross-bow. 

‘‘Keep the door,” he said to his two attendants; “shoot him or 
stab him without mercy, should he attempt to break forth ; if he 
offers- an escape, by Heaven he shall die !” 

“ How now, Edward,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ how is this that 
you so far forget yourself ? meditating violence to a guest, and in 
my presence, who represent your liege lord 1” 

Edward stepped forward with his draw'ii sword in his hand. 
“ Pardon me, reverend father,” he said, “ but in this matter the 
voice of nature speaks louder and stronger than yours. I turn 
my sword’s point against this proud man, and I demand of him 
the blood of my brother — the blood of my father’s son — of the 
heir of our name ! If he denies to give me a true account of him, 
he shall not deny me vengeance.” 

Embarrassed as he was, Sir Piercie Shafton shew-ed no personal 
fear. “ Put up thy sword,” he said, “ young man ; not in the same 
day does Piei'cie Shafton contend with two peasants.” 

“ Hear him ! he confesses the deed, holy father,” said Edward. 

“ Be patient, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, endeavouring to 
soothe the feelings which he could not otherwise control, “be 
patient — tliou wilt attain the ends of justice better through my 
means than thine own violence — And you, women, be silent — 
Tibb, remove your mistress and Mary Avenel.” 

While Tibb, with the assistance of the other females of the 
household, bore the poor mother and Mary Avenel into separate 
apartments, and \vhile Edward, still keeping his sw'ord in his 
hand, hastily traversed the room, as if to prevent the possibility 
of Sir Piercie Shafton’s escape, the Sub-Prior insisted upon 
knowing from the perplexed knight the particulars which lie 


THE MONASTERY. 


247 


laiew respecting Halbert Glendinning. His situation became 
extremely embarrassing, for what he might with safety have told 
of the issue of their combat was so revolting to his pride, that 
he could not bring himself to enter into the detail ; and of Hal- 
bert’s actual fate he knew, as the reader is well aware, absolutely 
nothing. 

The father in the meanwhile pressed him with remonstrances, 
and prayed him to observe, he would greatly prejudice himself by 
declining to give a fuU account of the transactions of the day. 
“You cannot deny,” he said, “ tliat yesterday you seemed to take 
the most violent offence at this unfortunate youth ; and that you 
suppressed your resentment so suddenly as to impress us all with 
surprise. Last night you proposed to him tliis day’s hunting 
party, and you set out together by break of day. You parted, 
you said, at the fountain near the rock, about an hour or twain 
after sunrise, and it appears that before you parted you had been 
at strife together.” 

“ I said not so,” replied the knight. “ Here is a coil indeed 
about the absence of a rustical bondsman, who, I dare say, hath 
gone off (if he be gone) to join the next rascally band of free- 
booters ! Ye ask me, a knight of the Piercie’s Imeage, to account 
for such an insignificant fugitive, and I answer, — let me know 
the price of his head, and I will pay it to your convent treasm*er.” 

“ You admit, then, that you have slain my brother?” said 
Edward, interfering once more ; “ I will presently sliew you at 
what price we Iscots rate the lives of our friends.” 

“ Peace, Edward, peace — I entreat — I command thee,” said 
the Sub-Prior. “ And you. Sir Knight, think better of us than to 
suppose you may spend Scottish blood, and reckon for it as for 
wine spilt in a drunken revel. This youth was no bondsman — 
thou well loiowest, that in thine own land thou hadst not dared 
to hft thy sword against the meanest subject of England, but 
her laws would have called thee to answer for the deed. Do not 
hope it will be otherwise here, for you will but deceive yourself.” 

“ You drive me beyond my patience,” said tlie Euphuist, “ even 
as the over-di-iveii ox is urged into madness ! — What can I tell 
you of a young fellow whom I have not seen since the second hour 
after sunris* ?” 

“ But can you explain in what circumstances you parted with 
him ?” said the monk. 

“ What are the circumstances, in the devil’s name, which you 
desire should be explained ? — for although I protest against tliis 
constraint as alike unworthy and mhospitable, yet would I will- 
ingly end this fray, provided that by words it may be ended,” 
said the knight. 

“ If these end it not,” said Edward, “ blows shall, and that full 
speedily.” 

“ Pe.ace, impatient boy !” said the Sub-Prior ; “ and do you. 
Sir Piercie Shafton, acquaint me why tlie ground is bloody by 


THE MONASTERY. 


248 

the verge of the fountain in Corri-nan-shian, where, as you say 
yourself, you parted from Halbert Glendinning 

Resolute not to avow his defeat if possibly he could avoid it, 
the knight answered in a haughty tone, that he supposed it was 
no unusual thing to find the turf bloody where hunters had slain 
a deer. 

And did you bury your game as well as kill it ?” said the 
monk. “We must know from you who is the tenant of that 
grave, that newly-made grave, beside the very fountain whose 
margin is so deeply crimsoned with blood? — Thou seest thou 
canst not evade me ; therefore be ingenuous, and tell us the fate 
of this unhappy youth, whose body is doubtless lying under that 
bloody turf.” 

“ If it be,” said Sir Piercie, “ they must have buried him alive ; 
for I swear to thee, reverend father, that this rustic juvenal 
parted from me in perfect health. Let tlie grave be searched, 
and if his body be found, then deal with me as ye list” 

“ It is not my sphere to determine thy fate. Sir Knight, but 
that of the Lord Abbot, and the right reverend Chapter. It is 
but my duty to collect such information as may best possess their 
Avisdom with the matters which have chanced.” 

“ Might I presume so far, reverend father,” said the knight, “ I 
should Avish to know the author and evidence of all these suspi- 
cions, so unfoundedly urged against me ?” 

“ It is soon told,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ nor do I Avish to dis- 
guise it, if it can avail you in your defence. This maiden, Mary 
Avenel, apprehending that you nourished malice against her foster- 
brother under a friendly broAv, did advisedly send up the old man, 
Martin Tacket, to folloAv your footsteps and to prevent mischief. 
But it seems that your evil passions had outrun precaution ; for 
Avhen he came to the spot, guided by your footsteps upon the deAv, 
he found but the bloody turf and the neAv coA^ered grave ; and 
after long and vain search through the Avilds after Halbert and 
yourself, he brought back the sorrowful neAvs to her Avho had 
sent him.” 

“ SaAv he not my doublet, I pray you ?” said Sir Piercie ; “ for 
Avhen I came to myself, I found that I Avas Avrapped in my cloak, 
but Avithout my under garment, as your reverence may observe.” 

So saying, he opened his cloak, forgetting, Avith his character- 
istical inconsistency, that he shewed his shirt stained Avith blood. 

“ Hoav ! cruel man,” said the monk, Avlien he observed this 
confirmation of his suspicions ; “ Avilt thou deny the guilt, even 
Avhile thou bearest on thy person the blood thou hast shed ? — 
Wilt thou longer deny that thy rash hand has robbed a mother 
of a son, our community of a vassal, the Queen of Scotland of a 
liege subject ? and Avhat canst thou expect, but that, at the least, 
Ave deliver thee up to England, as undeserving our farther pro- 
tection ?” 

“ By the Saints ! ” said the knight, now driven to extremity, 


THE MONASTERY. 


249 

“ if this blood be the wtness against me, it is but rebel blood, 
since this morning at sunrise it flowed within my own veins.” 

“ How were that possible, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the monk, 
“ since I see no wound from whence it can have flowed ?” 

“ That,” said the knight, ‘‘ is the most mysterious part of the 
transaction — See here !” 

So saying, he undid his shirt collar, and, opening his bosom, 
shewed the spot through which Halbert’s sword had passed, but 
already cicatrized, and bearing the appearance of a wound lately 
healed. 

“ This exhausts my patience. Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ and is adding insult to violence and injury. Do you hold me 
for a child or an idiot, that you pretend to make me believe tliat 
the fresh blood with which your shirt is stained, flowed from a 
wound which has been healed for weeks or months 1 Unhappy 
mockei', thinkest thou thus to blind us 1 Too well do we know 
that it is the blood of your victim, Avrestling with you in the 
desperate and mortal struggle, which has thus dyed your 
apparel.” 

The knight, after a moment’s recollection, said in reply, “ I 
will be open with you, my father — bid these men stand out of 
ear-shot, and I will tell you all I know of this mysterious busi- 
ness ; and muse not, good father, though it may pass thy wit to 
expound it, for I avouch to you it is too dark for mine own.” 

The monk commanded Edward and the two men to withdraw, 
assuring the former that his conference with the prisoner should 
be brief, and giving him permission to keep watch at the door of 
the apartment ; without which allowance he might, perhaps, have 
had some difficulty in procuring his absence, Edward had no 
sooner left the chamber, than he despatched messengers to one or 
two families of the Halidome, with whose sons his brother and 
he sometimes associated, to tell them that Halbert Glendinning 
had been murdered by an Englishman, and to require them to 
repair to the Tower of Glendearg without delay. The duty of 
revenge in such cases was held so sacred, that he had no reason 
to doubt they would instantly come with such assistance as would 
ensure the detention of the prisoner. He then locked the doors 
of the tower, both inner and outer, and also the gate of the court- 
yard. Having taken these precautions, he made a hasty visit to 
the females of the family, exhausting himself in efforts to console 
them, and in protestations that he would have vengeance for hia 
murdered brother. 


250 


THE MONASTERY . 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, ’tis hard reckoning. 

That 1, with every odds of birth and barony, 

Should be detain’d here for the casual death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
In which he sticks his hedge-knife. 

Old Play. 

While Edward was making preparations for securing and 
punishing the supposed murderer of his brother, with an intense 
thirst for vengeance, which had not hitherto shewm itself as part 
of his character, Sir Piercie Shafton made such communications 
as it pleased him to the Sub-Prior, who listened w'ith great 
attention, though the knight’s narrative w'as none of the clearest, 
especially as his self-conceit led him to conceal or abridge the 
details which were necessary to render it intelligible. 

“ You are to know,” he said, “ reverend father, that this 
rustical juvenal haAong chosen to offer me, in the presence of 
your venerable Superior, yourself, aud other excellent and 
w’orthy persons, besides the damsel Mai’y Avenel, whom I term 
my Discretion in all honour and kindness, a gross insult, rendered 
yet more intolerable by the time and place, my just resentment 
did so gam the mastery over my discretion, that I resolved to 
allow him the privileges of an equal, and to indulge him with the 
combat.” 

“ But, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “ you still leave two 
matters very obscui’e. First, why the token he presented to you 
gave you so much offence, as I w’itli others w’itnessed ; and then 
again, how the youth, whom you then met for the first, or, at 
least, the second time, knew so much of your history as enabled 
him so greatly to move you.” 

The knight coloured very deeply. 

“For your first query,” he said, “ most reverend father, we 
will, if you please, pretermit it as nothmg essential to the matter 
in hand ; and for the second — I protest to you that I know as 
little of his means of knowdedge as you do, and that 1 am well- 
nigh persuaded he deals with Sathanas, of wdiicli more anon. — 
Well, sir — In the evening,'! failed not to veil my purpose with a 
pleasant brow’, as is the custom amongst us martialists, who 
never display the bloody colours of defiance in our countenance 
until our hand is armed to fight under them. I amused the fair 
Discretion with some canzonettes, and other toys, which could not 
but be ravishing to her inexperienced ears. I arose in the morn- 
ing, and met my antagonist, w'ho, to say truth, for an inexperienced 
villagio, comported himself as stoutly as I could have desired. — 
So, coming to the encounter, reverend sir, I did try his mettle 
with some half-a-dozeu of do w might passes, with any one of wliicU 


THE iMONASTERY. 


251 

I could have been through his body, only that 1 was loth to take 
so fatal an advantage, but rather, mixing mercy with my just 
indignation, studied to inflict upon him some flesh-wound of no 
very fatol quality. But, sir, in the midst of my clemency, he, 
being instigated, I think, by the devil, did follow up his first 
offence with some insult of the same nature. Whereupon being 
eager to punish him, I made an estramazone, and my foot slip- 
ping at the same time, — not from any fault of fence on my part, 
or any advantage of skill on his, but the devil having, as I said, 
taken up the matter in hand, and the grass being slippery, — ei’e 
I recovered my position I encountered his sword, which he had 
advanced, A\ith my undefended person, so that, as I think, I was 
in some sort run through the body. My Juvenal, being beyond 
measure appalled at his own unexpected and unmerited success 
in this strange encounter, takes the flight and leaves me there, 
and I fall into a dead swoon for the lack of the blood I had lost 
so foolishly — and when I awake, as from a sound sleep, I find 
myself lying, an it like you, wrapt up in my cloak at the foot of 
one of the birch-trees which stand together in a clump near to 
this place. I feel my limbs, and experience little pain, but much 
wealcness — I put my hand to the wound — it was whole and 
skinned over as you uovv see it — I rise and come hitiier ; and in 
these words you have my whole day’s story.” 

“ I can only reply to so strange a tale,” answered the monk, 
“ that it is sciU’ce possible that Sir Piercie Shaftou can expect me 
to credit it. Here is a quarrel, the cause of which you conceal, 
— a wound received in the morning, of which there is no recent 
appearance at sunset, — a grave filled up, in which no body is 
deposited — the vanquished found ahve and well — the victor 
departed no man knows whither. These things. Sir Knight, 
hang not so well together, that I should receive them as 
gospel.” 

“ Reverend father,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, “ I pray you 
in the first place to observe, that if I offer peaceful and civil 
justification of that which I have already averred to be true, I do 
so only in devout deference to your dress and to your order, pro- 
testing, that to any other opposite, saving a man of religion, a 
lady, or my liege prince, I would not deign to support that which 
I had once attested, otherwise than with the point of my good 
sword. A nd so much being premised, I have to add, that I can 
but gage my honour as a gentleman, and my faith as a catholic 
Christian, that the things which I have described to you have 
happened to me as I have described them, and not otherwise.” 

“ It is a deep assertion. Sir Knight,” answered the Sub-Prior ; 

}'et, bethink you, it is only an assertion, and that no reason can 
be alleged why things should be believed which are so contrary 
to reason. Let me pray you to say whether the grave, wliich has 
been seen at your place of combat, was open or closed when your 
encounter took place 1” 


252 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Reverend father,” said tlie knight, “ I will veil from yon 
nothing, hut shew you each secret of my bosom; even as the pure 
fountain revealeth the smallest pebble which graces the sand at 
the bottom of its crystal mirror, and as ” 

“ Speak in plain terms, for the love of heaven !” said the monk ; 
" these holiday phrases belong not to solemn affairs — Was the 
grave open when the conflict began ?” 

“ It was,” answered the knight, “ I acknowledge it ; even as he 
that acknowledgetli ” 

“ Nay, I pray you, fair son, forbear these similitudes, and 
observe me. On yesterday at even no grave was found in that 
place, for old Martin chanced, contrary to his wont, to go tliither 
in quest of a strayed sheep. At break of day, by your own con- 
fession, a grave was opened in that spot, and there a combat was 
fought — only one of the combatants appears, and he is covered 
with blood, and to all appearance woundless.” — Here the knight 
made a gesture of impatience. — “ Nay, fair son, hear me but one 
moment — the grave is closed and covered by the sod — what can 
we believe, but that it conceals the bloody corpse of the fallen 
duellist ?” 

“ By Heaven, it cannot !” said the knight, “ unless the juvenal 
hath slain himself, and buried himself, in order to place me in 
the predicament of his murderer.” 

‘‘ The grave shall doubtless be explored, and that by to- 
morrow’s dawn,” said the monk ; “ I will see it done with mine 
own eyes.” 

“ But,” said the prisoner, “ I protest against all evidence which 
may arise from its contents, and do insist beforehand, that what- 
ever may be found in that grave shall not prejudicate me in my 
defence. I have been so haunted by diabolical deceptions in this 
matter, that what do I know but that the devil may assume the 
form of this rustical juvenal, in order to procure me farther vexa- 
tion ? — I protest to you, holy father, it is my very thought that 
there is witchcraft in all that hath befallen me. Since I entered 
into this northern land, in which men say that sorceries do abound, 
I, who am held in awe and regard even by the prime gallants in 
the court of Feliciana, have been here bearded and taunted by a 
clod-treading clown. I, whom Vincentio Saviola termed his 
nimblest and most agile disciple, was, to speak briefly, foiled by a 
cow-boy, who knew no more of fence tlian is used at every country 
wake. I am run, as it seemed to me, through the body, with a 
very sufficient stoccata, and faint on the spot ; and yet, when I 
recover, I find myself without either wem or wound, and lacking 
nothing of my apparel, saving my murrey-coloured doublet, 
slashed with satin, which I will pray may be inquired after, lest 
tlie devil, who transported me, should have dropped it in his pas- 
sage among some of the trees or bushes — it being a choice and 
most fanciful piece of raiment, which I wore for the first time at 
the Queen’s pageant in Southwark.” 


THE MONASTERY, 


253 


‘‘ Sir Knight,” said the rnonlc, "you do again go astray from 
this matter. I inquire of you respecting that which concerns the 
life of another man, and, it may be, touches your own also, and 
you answer me with a tale of an old doublet !” 

" Old !” ex«laimed the knight ; " now, by the gods and saints, 
if there be a gallant at the British Court more fancifully consi- 
derate, and more considerately fanciful, more quaintly curious, 
and more curiously quaint, in frequent changes of all rich articks 
of vesture, becoming one who may be accounted point-de-vice a 
courtier, I will give you leave to term me a slave and a liar.” 

The monk thought, but did not say, that he had already acquired 
right to doubt the veracity of the Euphuist, considering the mar- 
vellous tale which he had told. Yet his own strange adventure, 
and that of Father Philip, rushed on his mind, and forbade his 
coming to any conclusion. He contented himself, therefore, with 
observing, that these were certainly strange incidents, and 
requested to know if Sir Piercie Shafton had any other reason for 
suspecting himself to be in a manner so particularly selected for 
the sport of sorcery and witchcraft. 

" Sir Sub-Prior,” said the Euphuist, “ the most extraordinary 
i^ircumstance remains behind, which alone, had I neither been 
bearded in dispute, nor foiled in combat, nor wounded and cured 
in the space of a few hours, would nevertheless of itself, and with- 
out any other coi’roborative, have compelled me to believe myself 
the subject of some malevolent fascination. Reverend sir, it is not 
to your ears that men should tell tales of love and gallantry, nor 
is Sir Piercie Shafton one who, to any ears whatsoever, is wont 
to boast of his fair acceptance with the choice and prime beauties 
of the court ; insomuch that a lady, none of the least resplendent 
consteUations which revolve in that hemisphere of honour, pleasure, 
and beauty, but whose name I here pretermit, was wont to call me 
her Taciturnity. Nevertheless truth must be spoken; and I 
cannot but allow, as the general report of the court, allowed in 
camps, and echoed back by city and country, that in the alacrity 
of the accost, the tender delicacy of the regard, the facetiousness 
of the address, the adopting and pursuing of the fancy, the solemn 
close and the graceful fall-off, Piercie Shafton was accounted 
the only gallant of the time, and so well accepted amongst the 
choicer beauties of the age, that no silk-hosed reveller of the 
presence-chamber, or plumed j ouster of the tilt-yard, approached 
him by a bow’s length in the ladies’ regard, being the mark at 
which every well-born and generous juvenal aimeth his shaft. 
Nevertheless, reverend sir, having found in this rude place some- 
thing which by blood and birth might be termed a lady, and 
being desirous to keep my gallant humour in exercise, as well as 
to shew my sworn devotion to the sex in general, I did shoot off 
some arrows of compliment at this Mary Avenel, terming her 
my Discretion, with other quaint and well-imagined courtesies, 
rather bestowed out of my bounty than warranted by her merit. 


254 


THE MONASTERY. 


jir perchance like unto the boyish fowler, who, rather than not 
exercise his bird-piece, wall shoot at crows or magpies for lack of 
better game ” 

Mary Avenel is much obliged by your notice,” answered the 
monk ; " but to wdiat does all this detail of past and present 
gallantry conduct tis ?” 

“ Marry, to this conclusion,” answ'ered the knight ; “ that 
cither this my Discretion, or I myself, am little less than 
bewitched ; for, instead of receiving my accost wath a gratified 
bow, answ'ering my regard wath a suppressed smile, accompany- 
ing my falling off or departure with a slight sigh — honours 
wath which I protest to you the noblest dancers and proudest 
beauties in Feliciana have graced my poor services — she hath 
paid me as little and as cold regard as if I had been some hob- 
nailed clowai of these bleak mountains ! Nay, this very day, 
while I was in the act of kneeling at her feet to render her the 
succours of this pungent quintessence of purest spirit distilled by 
the fairest hands of the court of Feliciana, she pushed mo from 
her with looks which savoured of repugnance, and, as I think, 
thrust at me with her foot as if to spurn me from her presence. 
These things, reverend father, are strange, portentous, unnatural, 
and befall not in the current of mortal affairs, but are sympto- 
matic of sorcery and fascination. So that, having given to your 
reverence a perfect, simple, and plain account of all that I know 
concerning this matter, I leave it to your wisdom to solve what 
]nay be found soluble in the same, it being my purpose to- 
morrow, with the peep of dawn, to set forward towards Edin- 
hTn’gh.” 

“ I grieve to be an interruption to your designs. Sir Knight,” 
said the monk, “ but that purpose of thine may hardly be 
fulfilled.” 

‘‘ How, reverend father !” said the knight, with an air of the 
utmost surprise ; “ if what you say respects ray departure, under- 
stand that it mtcst be, for I have so resolved it.” 

‘‘ Sir Knight,” reiterated the Sub-Prior, T must once more 
I’cpeat, this cannot be, until the Abbot’s pleasure be known in the 
matter.” 

“ Reverend sir,” said the knight, drawing himself up with 
great dignity, I desire my hearty and thankful commendations 
to the Abbot ; but in this matter I have nothing to do wath his 
reverend pleasure, designing only to consult my owm.” 

“ Pardon me,” .said the Sub-Prior ; “ the Lord Abbot hath in 
this matter a voice potential.” 

Sir Piercie Shafton’s colour began to rise — “I marvel,” he 
said, “ to hear your reverence talk thus — What ! will you, for 
the imagined death of a rude low-born frampler and wrangler, 
venture to impinge upon the liberty of the kinsman of the house 
of Piercie ?” 

“ Sir Knight,” I’eturned the Sub-Prior civilly, “ your high 


THE MONASTERY. 


255 


Eneagc and your kindling anger will avail you nothing in this 
matter — You shall not come here to seek a shelter, and then spill 
our blood as if it were water.” 

“ I tell you,” said the knight, “once more, as I have told you 
already, that there was no blood spilled but mine own !” 

“That remains to be proved,” replied the Sub-Prior ; “we ot 
the community of Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhair, use not to take 
fairy tales in exchange for the lives of our liege vassals.” 

“ We -of the house of Piercie,” answered Shafton, “brook 
neither threats nor restraint — I say I will travel to-morrow, 
happen what may !” 

“ And I,” answered the Sub-Prior, in the same tone of deter- 
mination, “say that I will break your journey, eome what may!” 

“ Who shall gainsay me,” said the knight, “ if I make my way 
by force ?” 

“ You will judge wisely to think ere you make such aa 
attempt,” answered the monk, with composure ; “ there are men 
enough in the Ilalidome to vindicate its rights over those who 
dare to infringe them.” 

“ My cousin of Northumberland will know how to revenge 
this usage to a beloved kinsman so near to his blood,” said the 
Englishman. 

“ The Lord Abbot will know how to protect the rights of his 
territory, both with the temporal and spiritual sword,” said the 
monk. “ Besides, consider, were we to send you to your kinsman 
at Alnwick or Warkworth to-morrow, he dare do nothing but 
transmit you in fetters to the Queen of England. Bethink, Sir 
Knight, that you stand on slippei’y ground, and will act most 
wisely in reconciling yourself to be a prisoner in this place until 
the Abbot shall decide the matter. There are armed men enow 
to countervail all your efforts at escape. Let patience and resig- 
nation, therefore, arm you to a necessary submission.” 

So saying, he clapped his hands, and called aloud. Edward 
entered, accompanied by two young men who had already joined 
him, and were well armed. 

“Edward,” said the Sub-Prior, “you will supply the English 
knight here in this spence with suitable food and accommodation 
for the night, treating him with as much kindness as if nothing 
had happened between you. But you will place a sufficient guard, 
and look carefully that he make not his escape. Should he 
attempt to break forth, resist him to the death ; but in no other 
case harm a hair of his head, as you shall be answerable.” 

Edward Glendinning replied, — “ That I may obey your com- 
mands, rcA'erend sir, 1 will not again offer myself to this person’s 
presence ; for shame it Avere to me to break the peace of the 
Ilalidome, but not less shame to leaA'e my brother’s death 
unavenged.” 

As he spoke, his lip greAv livid, the blood forsook his eheek, 
and he Avas about to leave tlic apartment, Avheri the Sub-PrioT 


THE iMOi\ASTERY. 


256 

recalled him and said in a solemn tone, — Edward, I have 
known you from infancy — I have done what lay within my 
reach to be of use to you — I say nothing of what you owe to me 
as the representative of your spiritual Superior — I say nothing 
of the duty from the vassal to the Sub-Prior — But Father 
Eustace expects from the pupil whom ho has nurtured — ho 
expects from Edward Glendinning, that he will not by any deed 
of sudden violence, however justified in his own mind by the 
provocation, break through the respect due to public justice, or 
that which he has an especial right to claim from him.” 

“ Fear nothing, my reverend father, for so in an hundred 
senses may I well term you,” said the young man ; “ fear not, 1 
would say, that I will in any thing diminish the respect I owe to 
the venerable community by whom we have so long been 
protected, far less that I will do aught which can be personally 
less than respectful to you. But the blood of my brother must 
not cry for vengeance in vain — your reverence knows our 
Border creed.” 

“ ‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will requite it,’ ” 
answered the monk. “ The heathenish custom of deadly feud 
which prevails in this land, through which each man seeks ven- 
geance at his own hand when the death of a friend or kinsman has 
chanced, hath already deluged our vales with the blood of Scottish 
men, spilled by the hands of countrymen and kindred. It were 
endless to count up the fatal results. On the Eastern Border, 
the Homes are at feud with the Swintons and Cockburns ; in our 
Middle Marches, the Scotts and Kerrs have spilled as much 
brave blood in domestic feud as might have fought a pitched field 
in England, could they have but forgiven and forgotten a casual 
rencounter that placed their names in opposition to each other. 
On the west frontier, the Johnstones are at war with the Max- 
wells, the Jardines with the Bells, drawing with them the flower 
of the country, which should place their breasts as a bulwark 
against England, into private and bloody warfare, of which it is 
the only end to waste and impair tlie forces of the country, already 
divided in itself. Do not, my dear son Edward, permit this bloody 
prejudice to master your mind. I cannot ask you to think of the 
ci’ime suDDOsed as if the blood spilled had been less dear to you 
— Alas ! I know that is impossible. But I do require you, in 
proportion to your interest in the supposed sufferer, (for as yet 
the whole is matter of supposition,) to bear on your mind the 
evidence on which the guilt of the accused person must be tried. 
He hath spoken with me, and I confess his tale is so extraordinary, 
that I should have, without a moment’s hesitation, rejected it as 
incredible, but that an affair which chanced to myself in this very 
glen — More of that another time — Suffice it for the present to 
say, tliat from what I have myself experienced, I deem it possible, 
that, extraordinary as Sir Piercie Shafton’s story may seem, I hold 

not utterly impossible.’* 


THE MONASTERY. 


257 

“ Father,” said Edward Glen dinning, when he saw that his 
preceptor paused, unwilling farther to explain upon what grounds 
lie was inclined to give a certain degree of credit to Sir Piercie 
Shafton’s story, while he admitted it as improbable — “ Father to 
me you have been in every sense. You know that my hand 
grasped more readily to the book than to the sword ; and that I 

lacked utterly the I'eady and bold spirit which distinguished ” 

Here his voice faltered, and he paused for a moment, and then 
went on with resolution and I'apidity ■ — ‘‘I would say, that I was 
unequal to Halbert in promptitude of heart and of hand ; but 
Halbert is gone, and I stand his representative, and that of my 
father — his successor in all his rights,” (while he said this his 
eyes shot fire,) “ and bound to assert and maintain them as ho 
would have done — therefore I am a changed man, increased in 
courage as in my rights and pretensions. And, reverend father, 
respectfully, but plainly and firmly do I say, his blood, if it has 
been shed by this man, shall be atoned — Halbert shall not sleep 
neglected in his lonely grave, as if with him the spirit of my father 
had ceased for ever, llis blood flows in my veins, and while his 
has been poured forth unrequited, mine will permit me no rest. 
My poverty and meanness of I’ank shall not avail the lordly mur- 
derer. ]\Iy calm nature and peaceful studies shall not be his 
])rotection. Even the obligations, holy father, which I acknow- 
ledge to you, shall not be his protection. I wait with patience 
the judgment of the Abbot and Chapter, for the slaughter of one 
of their most anciently descended vassals. If they do right to my 
brother’s memory, it is well. But mark me, father, if they shall 
fail in rendering me that justice, I bear a heart and a hand which, 
though I love not such extremities, are capable of remedying such 
an error. He who takes up my brother’s succession must avenge 
his death.” 

The monk perceived with surprise, that Edward, with his 
extreme diffidence, humility, and oljedient assiduity, for such were 
his general characteristics, had still boiling in his veins the wild 
principles of those from whom he was descended, a-nd by whom 
he was surrounded. His eyes sparkled, his frame was agitated, 
and the extremity of his desire of vengeance seemed to give a 
vehemence to his manner resembling the restlessness of joy. 

“ May God help us,” said Father Eustace, “ for, frail wretches 
as we are, we cannot help ourselves under sudden and strong 
temptation. — Edward, I will rely on your word that you do 
iiotliing rashly.” 

‘•That will I not,” said Edward, — “that, my better than 
father, I surely will not. But the blood of my brother, — the 
tears of my mother — and — and — and of Mary Avenel, shall 
not be shed in vain. I Avill not deceive you, father — if this 
Piercie Shafton hath slain my brother, he dies, if the whole blood 
of the whole house of Piercie were in his veins.”^ 

There was a deep and solemn determination m the utterance 


THE MONASTERY. 


258 

of Edward Glendimiing, expressive of a rooted resolution. The 
Sub-Prior sighed deeply, and for the moment yielded to circum- 
stances, and urged the acquiescence of his pupil no farther. He 
commanded lights to be placed in the lower chamber, which for a 
time he paced in silence. 

A thousand ideas, and even differing principles, debated with 
each other in his bosom. He greatly doubted the Enghsh knight’s 
account of the duel, and of what had followed it. Yet the extra- 
ordinary and supernatural circumstances which had befallen the 
Sacristan and himself in that very glen, prevented him from 
being absolutely incredulous on the score of the wonderful wound 
and recovei’y of Sir Piercie Shafton, and prevented him from at 
once condemning as impossible that which was altogether im- 
probable. Then he was at a loss how to control the fraternal 
affections of Edward, with respect to whom he felt something like 
the keeper of a wild animal, a lion’s whelp or tiger’s cub, which 
he has held under his command from infancy, but which, when 
grown to maturity, on some sudden provocation displays his 
fangs and talons, erects his crest, resumes his savage nature, and 
bids defiance at once to his keeper and to all mankind. 

How to restrain and mitigate an ire v,diich the universal ex- 
ample of the times rendered deadly and inveterate, was sufficient 
cause of anxiety to Father Eustace. But he had ^so to consider 
the situation of his community, dishonoured and degraded by 
submitting to suffer the slaughter of a vassal to pass unavenged ; 
a circumstance which of itself might in those difficult times have 
afforded pretext for a revolt among their wavering adherents, or, 
on the other hand, exposed the community to imminent danger, 
should they proceed against a subject of England of high degree, 
connected with the house of Northumberland, and other nortliern 
families of high rank, who, as they possessed the means, could not 
be supposed to lack inclination, to UTeak upon the patrimony of 
Saint Mary of Kennaquhair, any violence which might be offered 
to their kinsman. 

In either case, the Sub-Prior well knew that the ostensible 
cause of feud, insurrection, or incursion, being once afforded, the 
case would not be ruled either by reason or by evidence, and he 
groaned in spudt when, upon counting up the chances which 
arose in this ambiguous dilemma, he found he had only a choice 
of difficulties. He was a monk, but he felt also as a man, in- 
dicant at the supposed slaughter of young Glendinning by one 
skilful in all the practice of arms, in which the vassal of the 
Monastery was most likely to be deficient; and to aid the re- 
sentment which he felt for the loss of a youth whom he had 
known from infancy, came in full force the sense of dishonour 
arising to his community from passing over so gross an insult 
unavenged. Then the light in which it might be viewed by those 
who at present presided in the stormy Court of Scotland, attached 
as they were to the Reformation, and allied by common faith and 


THE MONASTERY. 


259 

common interest with Queen Elizabeth, was a formidable subject 
of apprehension. The Sub-Prior well knew how they lusted 
after the revenues of tlie church, (to express it in the ordinary 
phrase of the religious of the time,) and how readily they would 
grasp at such a pretext for encroaching on those of Saint Mary’s, 
as would be afforded by the suffering to pass unpunished the 
death of a native Scottishman by a Catholic Englishman, a rebel 
to Queen EUzabeth. 

On the other hand, to deliver up to England, or, which was 
nearly the same thing, to the Scottish administration, an English 
knight leagued with the Piercie by kindred and pohtical intrigue, 
a faithful follower of the Catholic Church, who had fled to the 
Halidome for protection, was, hi the estimation of the Sub- 
I’rior, an act most unworthy in itself, and meriting the male- 
diction of Heaven, besides being, moreover, fraught with great 
temporal risk. If the government of Scotland was now almost 
entirely in the hands of the Protestant party, the Queen was still 
a Catholic, and there was no knowmg when, amid the sudden 
changes which agitated that tumultuous country, she might find 
herself at the head of her own affairs, and able to protect those of 
her own faith. Then if the Court of England and its Queen were 
zealously Protestant, the northei’ii counties, whose friendship or 
enmity were of most consequence in the first instance to the com- 
munity of Saint Mai’y’s, contained many Catholics, the heads of 
whom were able, and must be supposed willing, to avenge any 
injury suffered by Sir Piercie Shafton. 

On either side, the Sub-Prior, thinking, according to his sense 
of duty, most anxiously for the safety and welfare of his Monastery, 
saw the greatest risk of damage, blame, inroad, and confiscation. 
The only course on which he could determine, was to stand by the 
helm like a resolute pilot, watch every contingence, do his best to 
w'eather each reef and shoal, and commit the I’est to heaven and 
his patroness. 

As he left the apartment, the knight called after him, beseech- 
ing he would order his trunk-mails to be sent into his apartment, 
understanding he was to be guarded thex’e for the night, as he 
wished to make some altei’ation in his apparel.* 

“ Ay, ay,” said the monk, muttering as he went up the winding 
stair, “ carry him his trumpery with all despatch. Alas ! that 
man, with so many noble objects of pursuit, will amuse himself 
like a jackanape, with a laced jerkin and a cap and bells I — I 
must now to tlie melancholy work of consoling tliat which is well- 
nigh inconsolable, a mother weeping for her first-born.” 

Advancing, after a gentle knock, into the apartment of tho 
women^ he found that Mary Avenel had retired to bed, extremely 
indisposed, and that Dame Glen dinning and Tibb were indulging 
tlieir sorrows by the side of a decaying fire, and by the light of a 

♦ Sea Note K. Foppery qf the Sixteenth Century, 


THE MONASTEilY. 


260 

small iron lamp, or cruize, as it was termed. Poor Elspcth’s 
apron was thrown over her head, and bitterly did she sob and 
weep for “ her beautiful, her brave, — the very image of her dear 
Simon Glendinning, the stay of her widowhood and the support of 
her old age.” 

The faithful Tibb echoed her complaints, and, more violently 
clamorous, made deep promises of revenge on Sir Piercie Shafton, 
“ if there were a man left in the south who could draw a whinger, 
or a woman that could thraw a rape.” The presence of the Sub- 
Prior imposed silence on these clamours. He sate down by the 
unfortunate mother, and essayed, by such topics as his religion 
and reason suggested, to interrupt the current of Dame Glendin- 
ning’s feelings ; but the attempt Avas in vain. She listened, 
indeed, with some little interest, while he pledged his word and 
his influence with the Abbot, that the family which had lost their 
eldest-born by means of a guest received at his command, should 
experience particular protection at the hands of the community ; 
and that the fief which belonged to Simon Glendinning should, 
with extended bounds and added privileges, be conferred on 
Edwai’d. 

But it was only for a A^ery brief space that the mother’s sobs 
Avere apparently softer, and her grief more mild. She soon 
blamed herself for casting a moment’s thought upon Avorld’s gear 
Avhile poor Halbert Avas lying stretched in his bloody shirt. The 
Sub-Prior Avas not more fortunate, Avhen he promised that Hal- 
bert’s body " should be removed to hallowed ground, and his soul 
secured by the prayers of the church in his behalf.” Grief Avould 
have its natural course, and the voice of the comforter AA'as Avasted 
in A'ain. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

He is at liberty, I have A’entured for liiin ! 

if the law 

Find and condemn me for ’t, some livin'^ wenches, 
yome honest-hearted maids will sing my dirge. 

And tell to memory my death was noble. 

Dying almost a martyr. 

Tii’O Nolle Kinsmen. 

The Sub-Prior of Saint Mary’s, in taking his departure from 
the spence in Avhieh Sir Piercie Shafton Avas confined, and in 
Avhich some preparations were made for his passing the night as 
the room Avhich might be most conveniently guarded, left more 
than one perplexed person behind him. There Avas connected 
with this chamber, and opening into it, a small outshot, or project- 
ing part of the building, occupied by a sleeping apartment, Avhich 
upon ordinary occasions, Avas that of Mary Avenel, and Avhich, in 
tlie unusual number of guests Avho had come to the toAver on the 
former evening, had also accommodated Mysie Happer, the 


THE MONASTERY. 


261 

Miller’s daughter ; for anciently, as well as in the present day, a 
Scottish house was always rather too narrow and limited for the 
extent of tiie owner’s liospitality, and some shift and contrivance 
was necessary, upon any unusual occasion, to ensure the accom 
modation of all the guests. 

The fatal news of Halbert Glendinning’s death had thrown all 
former arrangements into confusion. Mary Avenel, whose case 
required immediate attention, had been transported into tlie 
apartment hitherto occupied by Halbert and his brother, as the 
latter proposed to watcli all night, in order to prevent the escape 
of the prisoner. Poor Mysie had been altogether overlooked, 
and had naturally enough betaken herself to the little apartment 
which she had hitherto occupied, ignorant that the spence, through 
whicli lay the only access to it, was to be the sleeping chamber of 
Sir Piercie Shafton. The measures taken for securing liim there 
had been so sudden, that she was not aware of it, until she found 
that the other females had been removed from the spence by the 
Sub-Prior’s direction, and liaving once missed the opportunity of 
retreating along with them, bashfulness, and the higli respect 
which slie was taught to bear to the monks, prevented her ven- 
turing forth alone, and intruding herself on the presence of 
Father Eustace, while in secret conference with the Southron. 
There appeared no remedy but to wait till their interview was 
over ; and, as tlie door was thin, and did not shut very closely, 
she could hear every word that passed betwixt them. 

It thus happened, that without any intended intrusion on her 
part, she became privy to the whole conversation of the Sub- 
Prior and the English knight, and could also observe from the 
window of her little retreat, that more than one of the young men 
summoned by Edward arrived successively at the tower. These 
circumstances led her to entertain most serious apprehension that 
the life of Sir Piercie Shafton was in great and instant^eril. 

Woman is naturally compassionate, and not less willingly so 
when youth and fair features are on the side of him who claims 
her sympathy. The handsome presence, elaborate dress and 
address of Sir Piercie Shafton, which had failed to make any 
favourable impi'ession on the grave and lofty character of Mary 
Avenel, had completely dazzled and bewildered the poor Maid ol 
the Mill. The knight had perceived this result, and, flattered 
by seeing that his merit was not universally underrated, he had 
bestowed on Mysie a good deal more of his courtesy than in his 
opinion her rank warranted. It was not cast away, but received 
with a devout sense of his condescension, and with gratitude for 
his personal notice, which, joined to her fears for his safety, and 
the natural tenderness of her disposition, began to make wild 
work in her heart. 

“ To be sure it was very wrong in him to slay Halbert Glen 
dinning,” (it was thus she argued the case with herself,) “ but 
then he was a gentleman born, and a soldier, and so gentle and 


THE MONASTERY. 


262 

courteous vvitlial, that she was sure the quarrel had been all of 
young Glendinning’s own seeldng ; for it was well known that 
both these lads were so taken up with that Mary Avenel, that 
they never looked at another lass in the Halidome, more than if 
they were of a different degree. And then Halbert’s dress was 
as clownish as his manners were haughty ; and this poor young 
gentleman, (who was habited like any prince,) banished from his 
own land, was first drawn into a quarrel by a rude brangler, 
and then persecuted and like to be put to death by his kin and 
allies.” 

Mysie wept bitterly at the thought, and then her heart rising 
against such cruelty and oppression to a defenceless stranger, who 
dressed with so much skill, and spoke with so much grace, she 
began to consider whether she could not render him some assis- 
tance in this extremity. 

Her mind was now entirely altered from its original purpose. 
At first her only anxiety had been to find the means of escaping 
from the interior apartment, without being noticed by any one ; 
but now she began to think that Heaven had placed her there for 
the safety and protection of the persecuted stranger. She was oi 
a simple and affectionate, but at the same time an alert and 
enterprising character, possessing more than female strength of 
body, and more than female courage, though with feelings as 
capable of being bewildered with gallantry of dress and language, 
as a fine gentleman of any generation would have desired to 
exercise his talents upon. “ I will save him,” she thought, “ that 
is the first thing to be resolved — and then I wonder what he will 
say to the poor Miller’s maiden, that has done for him w'hat all 
tlie dainty dames in London or Holyrood would have been afraid 
to venture upon.” 

Prudence began to pull her sleeve as she indulged speculations 
so hazardous, and hinted to her that the warmer Sir Piercie 
Shafton’s gratitude might prove, it was the more likely to be 
fraught with danger to his benefactress. Alas ! poor Prudence, 
thou mayest say with our moral teacher, 

“ I preach for ever, but I preach in vain.” 

The Miller’s maiden, while you pour your warning into her 
unwilling bosom, has glanced her eye on the small mirror by 
which she has placed her little lamp, and it returns to her a 
countenance and eyes, pretty and sparkling at all times, but 
ennobled at present with the energy of expression proper to those 
who have dared to form, and stand prepared to execute, deeds of 
generous audacity. 

“ Will these features — will these eyes, joined to the benefit I 
am about to confer upon Sir Piercie Shafton, do nothing towards 
removing the distance of rank between us *” 

Such was the question which female vanity asked of fancy ; and 
though even fancy dared not answer in a ready affirmative, a 


THE MONASTERY. 263 

middle conclusion was adopted — “ Let me first succour the 
gallant youth, and trust to fortune for the rest.” 

Banishing, therefore, from her mind every thing that was per- 
sonal to herself, the rash but generous girl turned her whole 
thoughts to the means of executing this enterprise. 

The difficulties which interposed were of no ordinary nature. 
The vengeance of the men of that country, in cases of deadly 
feud, that is, in cases of a quarrel excited by the slaughter of any 
of their relations, was one of their most marked characteristics ; 
and Edward, however gentle in other respects, was so fond of his 
brother, that there could bo no doubt that he would be as signal 
in his revenge as the customs of the country authorized. ’ There 
were to be passed the inner door of the apartment, the two gates 
of the tower itself, and the gate of the court-yard, ere the prisoner 
was at liberty ; and then a guide and means of flight were to bt; 
provided, otherwise ultimate escape was impossible. But where 
the will of w’oman is strongly bent on the accomplishment of such 
a purpose, her wdt is seldom baffled by difficulties, however em- 
barrassing. 

The Sub-Prior had not long left the apartment, ere Mysie had 
devised a scheme for Sir Piercie Shafton’s freedom, daring, indeed, 
but hkely to be successful, if dexterously conducted. It was 
necessary, however, that she should remain where she was till so 
late an hour, that all in the tower should have betaken themselves 
to repose, excepting those whose duty made them watchers. The 
interval she employed in observing the movements of the person 
in whose service she was thus boldly a volunteer. 

She could hear Sir Piercie Shafton pace the floor to and fro, in 
reflection doubtless on his own untoward fate and precarious 
situation. By and by she heard him making a I’ustling among his 
tnmks, which, agreeable to the order of the Sub -Prior, had been 
placed in the apartment to which he w'as confined, and which he 
was probably amusing more melancholy thoughts by examining 
and arranging. Then she could hear him resume his walk through 
the room, and, as if his spirits had been somewhat relieved and 
elevated by the survey of his wardrobe, she could distinguish that 
at one turn he half recited a sonnet, at another half whistled a 
galliard, and at the third hummed a saraband. At length she 
could understand that he extended himself on the temporary 
couch which had been allotted to him, after muttering his prayers 
hastily, and in a short time she concluded he must be fast asleep. 

She employed the moments wliich intervened in considering 
her enterprize under every different aspect ; and dangerous as it 
was, the steady review which she took of the various perils accom- 
panying her purpose, furnished her with plausible devices for 
obviating them. Love and generous compassion, which give 
singly such powerful impulse to the female heart, were in this 
case united, and championed her to the last extremity of hazard. 


2G4 


THE MONASTERY. 


It was an hour past midnight. All in the tower slept soundly 
but those who had undertaken to guard the English prisoner ; or 
if sorrow and suffering drove sleep from the bed of Dame Glen- 
dinning and her foster-daughter, they were too much wi-apt in 
their own griefs to attend to external sounds. The means of 
striking light were at hand in the small apartment, and thus the 
Miller’s maiden was enabled to light and trim a small lamp. 
With a trembling step and throbbing heart, she undid the door 
which separated her from the apartment in which the Southron 
knight was confined, and almost flinched from her fixed purpose, 
when she found herself in the same room with the sleeping 
prisoner. She scaj'cely trusted herself to look upon him, as he lay 
wrapped in his cloak, and fast asleep upon the pallet bed, but 
turned her eyes away while she gently pulled his mantle with no 
more force than was just equal to awaken him. He moved not 
until she had twitched his cloak a second and a third time, and 
then at length looking up, was about to make an exclamation in 
the suddenness of his surprise. 

Mysie’s bashfuhiess was conquered by her fear. She placed 
her fingers on her lips, in token that he must observe the most 
strict silence, and then pointed to the door to intimate that it was 
watched. 

Sir Piercie Shafton now collected himself, and sat upright on 
his couch. He gazed with surprise on the graceful figure of the 
young woman who stood before him ; her well-formed person, her 
flowing hair, and the outline of her features, shewed dimly, and 
yet to advantage, by the partial and feeble light which she held in 
her hand. The romantic imagination of the gallant would soon 
have coined some compliment proper for the occasion, but Mysie 
left him not time. 

“ I come,” she said, “ to save your life, which is else in great 
peril — if you answer me, speak as low as you can, for they have 
sentinelled your door with armed men.” 

“ Comeliest of millers’ daughters,” answered Sir Piercie, who 
by this time was sitting upright on his couch, “ dread nothing for 
my safety. Credit me, that, as in very truth, I have not spilled 
the red puddle (which these villagios call the blood) of their most 
uncivil relation, so I am under no apprehension whatever for the 
issue of this restraint, seeing that it cannot but be harmless to 
me. Natheless, to thee, O most Molendinar beauty, I return the 
tlianks whicli thy courtesy may justly claim.” 

“ Nay, but. Sir Knight,” answered the maiden, in a whisper as 
low as it was tremulous, “ I deserve no thanks, unless you will act 
by my counsel. Edward Glendinning hath sent for Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst, and young Adie of Aikenshaw, and they are come 
with three men more, and with bow, and jack, and spear, and I 
heard them say to each other, and to Edward, as they alighted in 
the court, that they would have amends for the death of their 


THE MONASTERY. 


265 

kinsman, If the monk’s cowl should smoke for it — And the vassals 
lire so wilful now, that the Abbot himself dare not control theni; 
for fear they turn heretics, and refuse to pay their feu-duties.” 

“ In faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ it may be a shrewd 
temptation, and perchance the monks may rid themselves of 
trouble and cumber, by handing me over the march to Sir John 
Foster or Lord Hunsdon, the English wardens, and so make 
peace with their vassals and with England at once. Faii’est 
Molinara, I will for once walk by thy rede, and if thou dost con- 
trive to extricate me from this vile kennel, I will so celebrate thy 
wit and beauty, that the Baker’s nymph of Raphael d’Urbino shall 
seem but a gipsey in comparison of my Molinara.” 

“ I pray you, then, be silent,” said the Miller’s daughter ; “for 
if your speech betrays that you are awake, my scheme fails 
utterly, and it is Heaven’s mercy and Our Lady’s that we are 
not ali’eady overheard and discovered.” 

“ I tm silent,” replied the Southron, “ even as the starless 
night — but yet — if this contrivance of thine should endanger 
thy safety, fair and no less kind than fair damsel, it were utterly 
unworthy of me to accept it at thy hand.” 

“Do not think of me,” said Mysie, hastily ; “T am safe — I 
will take thought for myself, if I once saw you out of this dan- 
gerous dwelling — if you would provide yourself with any part of 
your apparel or goods, lose no time.” 

The knight did, however, lose some time, ere he could settle in 
his own mind what to take and what to abandon of his wardrobe, 
each article of which seemed endeared to him by recollection of 
the feasts and revels at which it had been exhibited. For some 
little while Mysie left him to make his selections at leisure, for 
she herself had also some prepai’ations to make for flight. But 
when, returning from the chamber into which she had I’etired, 
with a small bundle in her hand, she found him still indecisive, 
she insisted in plain tei’ms, that he should either make up his 
baggage for the enterprise, or give it up entirely. Thus urged, 
the disconsolate knight hastily made up a few clothes into a 
bundle, regarded his trunk-mails with a mute expression of 
parting sorrow, and intimated his readiness to wait upon his kind 
guide. 

She led the way to the door of the apartment, having first 
carefully extinguished her lamp, and motioning to the knight to 
stand close behind her, tapped once or twice at the door. She 
was at length answered by Edward Glendinning, who demanded 
to know who knocked within, and what w'as desired. 

“ Speak low,” said Mysie Happer, “ or you will awaken the 
English luiight. It is I, Mysie Happer, who knock — I wish to 
get out — you have locked me up — and I was obliged to wait till 
tlie Southron slept.” 

“ Locked you up !” replied Edward, in surprise. 

“ Yes,” answered the Miller’s daughter, “ you have locked mo 


266 


THE MONASTERY. 


up into this room — I was in Mary Avenel’s sleeping apart* 

ment.” _ ^ „ i. , i 

“ And can you not remain there till morning, replied Edward, 

since it has so chanced 

«What!” said the Miller’s daughter, in a tone of offended 
delicacy, “ I remain here a moment longer than I can get out 
without discovery ! — I would not, for all the Halidome of St 
Mary’s, remain a minute longer in the neighbourhood of a man’s 
apartment than I can help it — For whom, or for what do you 
hold me ? I. promise you, my father’s daughter has been better 
brought up than to put in peril her good name.” 

" Come forth then, and get to thy chamber in silence,” said 
Edward. 

So saying, he undid the bolt. The staircase without was in 
utter darkness, as Mysie had before ascertained. So soon as she 
stept out, she took hold of Edward as if to support herself, thus 
interposing her person betwixt him and Sir Piercie Shafton, by 
whom she was closely followed. Thus screened from observation, 
the Englishman slipped past on tiptoe, unshod and in silence, 
while the damsel complained to Edward that she wanted a light. 

“ I cannot get you a light,” said he, “ for I cannot leave this 
post ; but there is a fire below.” 

“ I will sit below till morning,” said the Maid of the Mill; and, 
tripping down stairs, heard Edward bolt and bar the door of the 
now tenantless apartment with vain caution. 

At the foot of the stair which she descended, she found the 
object of her care waiting her farther directions. She recom- 
mended to him the most absolute silence, which, for once in his 
life, he seemed not unwilling to observe, conducted him with as 
much caution as if he were walking on cracked ice, to a dark 
recess, used for depositing wood, and instructed him to ensconce 
himself behind the fagots. She herself lighted her lamp once 
more at the kitchen fire, and took her distaff and spindle, that she 
might not seem to be unemployed, in case any one came into the 
apartment. From time to time, howevei', she stole towards the 
window on tiptoe, to catch the first glance of the dawn, for the 
farther prosecution of her adventurous project. At length she 
saw, to her great joy, the first peep of the morning brighten upon 
the gray clouds of the east, and, clasping her hands together, 
thanked Our Lady for the sight, and implored protection during 
the remainder of her enterprise. Ere she had finished her prayer, 
she started at feeling a man’s arm across her shoulder, while a 
rough voice spoke in her ear — “ What ! menseful Mysie of the 
Mill so soon at her prayers 1 — now, benison on the bonny eyes 
that open so early ! — I ’ll have a kiss for good morrow’s sake.” 

Dan of the Howlet-hirst, for he was the gallant who pain 
Mysie this compliment, suited the action with the word, and the 
action, as is usual in such cases of rustic gallantry, was rewarded 
with a cuff, which Dan received as a fine gentleman receives a 


THE MONASTERY. 


267 

tap with a fan, but which, delivered by the energetic arm of the 
Miller’s maiden, Avould have certainly astonished a less robust 
gallant. 

" How now. Sir Coxcomb !” said she, “ and must you be away 
fi’om your guard over the English knight, to plague quiet folks 
wdth your horse-tricks !” 

Truly you are mistaken, pretty Mysie,” said the clown, “ for 
I have not yet relieved Edward at his post ; and were it not a 
shame to let him stay any longer, by my faith, I could find it in 
my heart not to quit you these two hours.” 

Oh, you have hours and hours enough to see any one,” said 
Mysie ; ‘‘but you must think of the distress of the household 
even now, and get Edw’ard to sleep for a while, for he has kept 
watch this whole night.” 

“ 1 will have another kiss first,” answered Dan of the Howlet- 
hirst. 

But Mysie was now on her guard, and, conscious of the vicinity 
of the wood-hole, offered such strenuous resistance, that the swain 
cursed the nymph’s bad humour with very unpastoral phrase and 
emphasis, and ran up stairs to relieve the guard of his comrade. 
Stealing to the door, she heard the new sentinel hold a brief con- 
versation with Edward, after which the latter withdrew, and the 
former entered upon the duties of his watch. 

Mysie suffered him to walk there a little while undisturbed, 
until the dawning became more general, by which time she sup- 
posed he might have digested her coyness, and then presenting 
herself before the watchful sentinel, demanded of him “ the keys 
of the outer tow'er, and of the court-yard gate.” 

“ And for what purpose ?” answered the warder. 

“ To milk the cows, and drive them out to their pasture,” said 
Mysie ; “ you would not have the poor beasts kept in the byre a’ 
morning, and the family in such distress, that there is na ane fit 
to do a turn but the byre-woman and myself 1” 

“ And where is the byre-woman 1” said Dan. 

“ Sitting with me in the kitchen, in case these distressed folks 
want any thing.” 

“ There are the keys, then, Mysie Dorts,” said the sentinel. 

“ Many thanks, Dan Ne’er-do-weel,” answered the Maid of the 
Mill, and escaped down stairs in a moment. 

To hasten to the wood-hole, and there to robe the English knight 
in a short-gown and petticoat, which she had provided for the 
purpose, was the work of another moment. She then undid the 
gates of the tower, and made towards the byre, or cow-house, 
which stood in one corner of the court-yard. Sir Piercie Shafton 
remonstrated against the delay which this would occasion. 

“ Fair and generous Molinara,” he said, “ had we not better 
undo the Outward gate, and make the best of our way hence, even 
like a pair of sea-mews who make towards shelter of the rocks as 
tlio storm waxes high ?” 


2GS 


THE MONASTERY, 


“ We must drive out the cows first,” said Mysie, “ for ca sin it 
were to spoil the poor widow’s cattle, both for her sake and the 
poor beasts’ own ; and I have no mind any one shall leave the 
tower in a hurry to follow us. Besides, you must Imve your horse, 
for you will need a fleet one ere all be done.” 

So saying, she locked and double-locked both tlie inward and 
outward door of the tower, proceeded to the cow-house, turned 
out the cattle, and, giving the knight his own horse to lead, drove 
them before her out at the court-yard gate, intending to return 
for her own palfrey. But the noise attending the first operation 
caught the wakeful attention of Edward, who, starting to the 
bartizan, called to know what the matter was. 

Mysie answered with great readiness, that “ she was driving 
out the cows, for that they would be spoiled for want of looking 
to.” 

“ I thank thee, kind maiden,” said Edward — “ and yet,” he 
added, after a moment’s pause, “ what damsel is that thou hast 
with thee ?” 

Mysie was about to answer, when Sir Piercie Shafton, who 
apparently did not desire that the great work of his liberation 
should be executed without the interposition of his own ingenuity, 
exclaimed from beneath, “ I am she, 0 most bucolical juvenal, 
under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.” 

“ Hell and darkness !” exclaimed Edward, in a transport of 
fury and astonishment, “ it is Piercie Shafton — What ! treason ! 
treason ! — ho ! — Dan — Jasper — Martin — the villain escapes !” 

“ To horse ! to horse !” cried Mysie, and in an instant mounted 
behind the knight, who was already in the saddle. 

Edward caught up a cross-bow, and let fly a bolt, which whistled 
so near Mysie’s ear, that she called to her companion, — “ Spur 
— spur. Sir Knight ! — the next will not miss us. — Had it been 
Halbert instead of Edward who bent that bow, we had been 
dead.” 

The knight pressed his horse, which dashed past the cows, and 
down the knoll on which the tower was situated. Then taking 
the road down the valley, the gallant animal, reckless of its 
double burden, soon conveyed them out of hearing of the tumult 
and alarm with which their departure filled the Tower of Glen- 
dearg. 

Thus it strangely happened, that two men were flying in dif- 
ferent directions at the same time, each accvised of being the 
other’s murderer. 


THE MONASTERY. 


209 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Sure lie cannot 

JJe so unmanly as to leave me here ; 

If he do, maids will not so easily 
Trust men again. 

The Tu'o Noble Kinsvien. 

The knight continued to keep the good horse at a pace as 
(piick as the road permitted, until they had cleared the valley of 
Glendearg, and entered upon the broad dale of the Tweed, which 
now rolled before them in crystal beauty, displaying on its opposite 
bank the huge gray Monastery of St Mary’s, whose towers and 
pinnacles wei-e scarce yet touched by the newly-risen sun, so 
deeply the edifice lies shrouded under the mountains which rise 
to the southward. 

Turning to the left, the knight continued his road down the 
northern bank of the river, until they arrived nearly opposite to 
the weir, or dam-dike, where Father Philip concluded his extra- 
ordinary aquatic excui’sion. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whose brain seldom admitted more than 
one idea at a time, had hitherto pushed forward without very dis- 
tinctly considering where he was going. But the sight of the 
Monastery so near to him, reminded him that he was still on 
dangerous ground, and that he must necessarily provide for his 
safety by choosing some settled plan of escape. The situation of 
liis guide and deliverer also occurred to him, for he was far from 
being either selfish or ungrateful. He listened, and discovered 
that the Miller’s daughter was sobbing and weeping bitterly as 
she rested her head on his shoulder. 

“ What ails thee,” he said, “ my generous IMolinara ? — is there 
aught that Piercie Shafton can do which may shew his gratitude 
to his deliverer Mysie pointed with her finger across the river, 
but ventured not to turn her eyes in that direction. “ Nay, but 
speak plain, most generous damsel,” said the knight, who, for once, 
was puzzled as much as his own elegance of speech was wont to 
puzzle others, “ for I swear to you that I comprehend nought by 
the extension of thy fair digit.” 

“ Yonder is my father’s house,” said Mysie, in a voice inter- 
rupted by the increased burst of her sorrow. 

“ And I was carrying thee discourteously to a distance from 
thy habitation ?” said Shafton, imagining he had found out the 
source of her grief. ‘‘Wo worth the hour that Piercie Shafton, 
in attention to his own safety, neglected the accommodation of any 
female, far less of his most beneficent liberatrice ! Dismount, 
then, 0 lovely Molinara, unless thou wouldst rather that I should 
transport thee on horseback to the house of thy molendinary 
father, which, if thou sayest the word, I am prompt to do, defying 


THE MONASTERY. 


270 

all dangers wliicli may arise to me personally, whether by monk 
or miller.” 

Mysie suppressed her sobs, and with considerable dij0Bculty 
muttered her desire to alight, and take her fortune by herself. 
Sir Piercie Shafton, too devoted a squire of dames to consider the 
most lowly as exempted from a respectful attention, independent 
of the claims which the Miller’s maiden possessed over him, dis- 
mounted instantly from his horse, and received in his arms the 
poor girl, who still wept bitterly, and, when placed on tlie ground, 
seemed scarce able to support herself, or at least still clung, 
though, as it appeared, unconsciously, to the support he had 
afforded. He carried her to a weeping birch tree, which grew on 
tlie green-sward bank around which the road winded, and, placing 
her on the ground beneath it, exhorted her to compose herself. 
A strong touch of natural feeling struggled with, and half over- 
came, his acquired affectation, while he said, “ Credit me, most 
generous damsel, the service you have done to Piercie Shafton he 
would have deemed too dearly bought, had he foreseen it was to 
cost you these tears and singults. Shew me the cause of your 
grief, and if I can do aught to remove it, believe that the rights 
you have acquired over me will make your commands sacred as 
tliose of an empress. Speak, then, fair Molinara, and command 
him whom fortune hath rendered at once your debtor and your 
cliampion. What are your orders ?” 

“ Only that you wUl fly and save yourself,” said Mysie, 
mustering up her utmost efforts to utter these few words. 

‘‘Yet,” said the knight, “let me not leave you without some 
token of remembrance.” Mysie would have said there needed 
none, and most truly would she have spoken, could she have 
spoken for weeping. “ Piercie Shafton is poor,” he continued, 
‘‘ but let this chain testify he is not ungrateful to his deliverer.” 

He took from his neck the idch chain and medallion we have 
formerly mentioned, and put it into the powerless hand of the 
poor maiden, who neither received nor rejected it, but, occupied 
with more intense feelings, seemed scarce aware of what he was 
doing. 

“We shall meet again,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ at least 1 
ti-ust so ; meanwhile, weep no more, fair Molinara, an thou lovest 
me.” 

The plirase of conjuration was but used as an ordinary com- 
monplace expression of the time, but bore a deeper sense to poor 
Mysie’s ear. She dried her tears ; and when the knight, in all 
kind and chivalrous courtesy, stooped to embrace her at their 
parting, she rose humbly up to receive the proflered honour in 
a posture of more deference, and meekly and gratefully accepted 
the offered salute. Sir Piercie Shafton mounted his horse, and 
began to ride off, but curiosity, or perhaps a stronger feeling, 
soon induced him to look back, when he beheld the Miller’s 
daughter standing still motionless on tlie spot where tliey had 


THE MONASTERY. 27 1 

parted, her eyes turned after him, and the unheeded chain 
hanging from her hand. 

It was at this moment that a glimpse of the real state of 
Mysie’s affections, and of the motive from which she had acted 
in the whole matter, glanced on Sir Piercie Shafton’s mind. The 
gallants of that age, disinterested, aspiring, and lofty-minded 
even in their coxcombry, were strangers to those degrading and 
mischievous pursuits which are usually termed low amours. They 
did not “ chase the humble maidens of the plain,” or degrade 
their own rank, to deprive rimal innocence of peace and virtue. 
It followed, of course, that as conquests in this class were no part 
of their ambition, they were in most cases totally overlooked and 
unsuspected, left unimproved, as a modern would call it, where, 
as on the present occasion, they were easually made. The com- 
panion of Astrophel, and flower of the tilt-yard of Feliciana, had 
no more idea that his graces and good parts could attach the love 
of Mysie Happer, than a first-rate beauty in the boxes dreams of 
the fatal wound which her charms may inflict on some attorney’s 
romantic apprentice in the pit. I suppose, in any ordinary case, 
the pride of rank and distinction would have pronounced on the 
humble admirer the doom which Beau Fielding denounced 
against the whole female world, “ Let them look and die but 
the obligations under which he lay to the enamoured maiden, 
miller’s daughter as she was, precluded the possibility of Sir 
Piercie’s treating the matter en cavalier, and, much embarrassed, 
yet a little flattered at the same time, he rode back to try wliat 
could be done for the damsel’s relief. 

The innate modesty of poor Mysie could not prevent her 
shewing too obvious signs of joy at Sir Piercie Shafton’s return. 
She was betrayed by the sparkle of the rekindling eye, and a 
caress which, however timidly bestowed, she could not help giving 
to the neck of the horse which brought back the beloved rider. 

‘‘ What farther can I do for you, kind Molinara 1” said Sir 
Piercie Shafton, himself hesitating and blushing ; for, to the grace 
of Queen Bess’s age be it spoken, her courtiers wore more iron 
on their breasts than brass on their foreheads, and even amid 
iheir vanities preserved still the decaying spirit of chivalry 
which inspired of yore the very gentle Knight of Chaucer, 

“ Who in his port was modest as a maid.” 

Mysie blushed deeply, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and 
Sir Piercie proceeded in the same tone of embarrassed kindness. 
“Are you afraid to return home alone, my kind Molinara 1 — 
would you that I should accompany you ?” 

“ Alas !” said Mysie, looking up, and her cheek changing from 
scarlet to pale, “ I have no home left.” 

“ How ! no home ?” said Shafton ; “ says my generous Molinara 
she hath no home, when yonder stands the house of her father, 
and but a crystal stream between 1” 


272 


THE MONASTERY. 


Alas !” answered the Miller’s maiden, " I have no longer 
cither home or father. He is a devoted servant to the Abbey — 
I have offended the Abbot, and if I return home my father will 
kill me.” 

“ He dare not injure thee, by Heaven !” said Sir Piercie ; “ I 
swear to thee, by my honour and knighthood, that the forces 
of my cousin of Northumbeidand shall lay the Monastery so flat, 
that a horse shall not stumble as he rides over it, if they should 
dare to injure a hair of your head ! Therefore be hopeful and 
content, kind Mysinda, and know you have obliged one who can 
and will avenge the slightest wrong offered to you.” 

He sprung from his horse as he spoke, and, in the animation of 
his argument, grasped the willing hand of Mysie, (or Mysinda as 
he had now christened her.) He gazed too upon full black eyes, 
fixed upon his own with an expression Avhich, however subdued 
by maidenly shame, it was impossible to mistake, on cheeks 
where something like hope began to restore the natural colour, 
and on two lips which, like double rosebuds, were kept a little 
apart by expectation, and shewed within a line of teeth as white 
as pearl. All this was dangerous to look upon, and Sir Piercie 
Shafton, after repeating witli less and less force his request that 
the fair Mysinda would allow him to carry her to her father’s, 
ended by asking the fair Mysinda to go along with him — “ At 
least,” he added, “ until I shall be able to conduct you to a place 
of safety.” 

Mysie Happer made no answer ; but blushing scarlet betwixt 
joy and shame, mutely expressed her willingness to accompany 
the Southron Knight, by knitting her bundle closer, and prepar- 
ing to resume her seat en croupe. “ And what is your pleasure 
that I. should do with this ?” she said holding up the chain as if 
she had been for the first time aware that it was in her hand. 

“ Keep it, fairest Mysinda, for my sake,” said the Knight. 

“ Not so, sir,” answered Mysie, gravely ; ‘‘ the maidens of my 
country take no such gifts from their superiors, and I need no 
tolcen to remind me of this morning.” 

Most earnestly and courteously did the Knight urge her accep- 
tance of the proposed guerdon, but on this point Mysie was 
resolute ; feeling, perhaps, that to accept of any thing bearing 
the appearance of reward, would be to place the service she had 
reiidei’ed him on a mercenary footing. In short, she would only 
agree to conceal the chain, lest it might prove the means of detect- 
ing the owner, until Sir Piercie should be placed in perfect safety. 

They mounted and resumed their journey, of which Mysie, as 
bold and sharp-witted in some points as she was simple and sus- 
ceptible in others, now took in some degree the direction, having 
only inquired its general destination, and learned that Sir Piercie 
Shafton desired to go to Edinburgh, where he hoped to find 
Mends and protection. Possessed of this information, Mysie 
availed herself of her local knowledge to get as soon as possible 


THE MONASTERY. 


273 

out of the hounds of the Halidome, and into Uiose of a temporal 
baron, supposed to be addicted to the reformed docti’ines, and 
upon whose limits, at least, she thought their pursuers would not 
attempt to hazard any violence. She was not indeed very appre- 
hensive of a pursuit, reckoning with some confidence that 
the inhabitants of the Tower of Glendearg would find it a matter 
of difficulty to surmount the obstacles arising from their own bolts 
and bars, with which she had carefully secured them before 
setting forth on the retreat. 

They journeyed on, therefore, in tolerable security, and Sir 
Piercie Shafton found leisure to amuse the time in high-flown 
speeches and long anecdotes of the court of Feliciana, to which 
Mysie bent an ear not a whit less attentive, that she did not 
understand one word out of three which was uttered by her fel- 
low-traveller. She listened, however, and admired upon trust, as 
many a wise man has been contented to treat the conversation of 
a handsome but silly mistress. As for Sir Piercie, he was in his 
element ; and, well assured of the interest and full approbation 
of his auditor, he went on spouting Euphuism of more than usual 
obscurity, and at more than usual length. Thus passed the morn- 
ing, and noon brought them within sight of a winding stream, on 
the side of which arose an ancient baronial castle, simrounded by 
some large trees. At a small distance from tho gate of the man- 
sion, extended, as in those days was usual, a straggling hamlet, 
having a church in the centre. 

“ Thei'e are two hostelries in this Kirk-town,” said Mysie, 

but the worst is best for our purpose ; for it stands apart from 
the other houses, and I ken the man weel, for he has dealt with 
my father for malt.” 

This causa scientice, to use a lawyer’s phrase, was ill chosen for 
Mysie’s purpose ; for Sir Piercie Shafton had, by dint of his own 
loquacity, been talking himself all this while into a high esteem 
for his fellow-traveller, and, pleased with the gracious reception 
which she afforded to his powers of conversation, had well-nigh 
forgotten that she was not herself one of those high-born beauties 
of whom he was recounting so many stories, when this unlucky 
speech at once placed the most disadvantageous circumstances 
attending her lineage under his immediate recollection. He said 
nothing, however. What indeed could he say % Nothing was 
so natural as that a miller’s daughter should be acquainted with 
])ublicans who dealt with her father for malt, and all that was to 
be wondered at was the concurrence of events which had rendered 
such a female the companion and guide of Sir Piercie Shafton of 
Wilverton, kinsman of the great Earl of Northumberland, whom 
j)rinces and sovereigns themselves termed cousin, because of the 
Piercie blood.* He felt the disgrace of strolling through the 

* Froissart tells us somewhere, (the readers of romances are indifferent to 
accurate reference,) that the King of France called one of the Fiercies cousin, 
because of tlie Hood of Northuniberliind. 

X S 


THE MONASTERY. 


274 

country with a miller’s maiden on the crupper behind him, and 
was even ungrateful enough to feel some emotions of shame, when 
he halted his horse at the door of the little inn. 

But the alert intelligence of Mysie Happer spared him farther 
sense of derogation, by instantly springing from the horse, and 
cramming the ears of mine host, who came out with his mouth 
agape to receive a guest of the knight’s appearance, with an 
imagined tale, in which circumstance on circumstance w'ere 
huddled so fast, as to astonish Sir Piercie Shafton, whose own 
invention was none of the most brilliant. She explained to the 
publican that this was a great English luiight travelling from the 
Monastery to the Court of Scotland, after having paid his vows to 
Saint Mary, and that she had been directed to conduct him so far 
on the road ; and that Ball, her palfrey, had fallen by the way, 
because he had been over-wrought with carrying home the last 
melder of meal to the portioner of Langhope ; and that she had 
turned in Ball to graze in the Tasker’s park, near Cripplecross, 
for he had stood as still as Lot’s wife with very weariness ; and 
that the knight had courteously insisted she should ride behind 
him, and that she had brought him to her kend friend’s hostelry 
rather than to proud Peter Peddie’s, who got his malt at the 
Mellerstane mills ; and that he must get the best that the house 
afforded, and that he must get it ready in a moment of time, and 
that she was ready to help in the kitchen. 

All this ran glibly off the tongue without pause on the part of 
Mysie Happer, or doubt on that of the landlord. The guest’s 
horse was conducted to the stable, and he himself installed in the 
cleanest corner and best seat which the place afforded. Mysie, 
ever active and officious, was at once engaged in preparing food, 
in spreading the table, and in making all the better arrangements 
which her experience could suggest, for the honour and comfort 
of her companion. He would fain have resisted this ; for while 
it was impossible not to be gratified with the eager and alert kind- 
ness which was so active in his service, he felt an undefinable 
pain in seeing Mysinda engaged in these menial services, and 
discharging them, moreover, as one to whom they were but too 
familiar. Yet this jarring feeling w^as mixed with, and perhaps 
balanced by, the extreme grace with which the neat-handed maiden 
executed these tasks, however mean in themselves, and gave to 
the wretched corner of a miserable inn of the period, the air of a 
bower, in w'hich an enamoured fairy, or at least a shepherdess of 
Arcadia, was displaying, with unavailing solicitude, her designs on 
the heart of some knight, destined by fortune to higher thoughts, 
and a more splendid nnion. 

The lightness and grace with which Mysie covered the little 
round table with a snow-white cloth, and arranged upon it the 
hastily-roasted capon, with its accompanying stoup of Bourdeaux^ 
were but plebeian graces in themselves ; but yet there were very 
flattering ideas excited by ea«h glance. She was so very well 


THE MONASTERY. 


275 

made, agile at once and graceful, with her hand and arm as white 
Its snow, and her face in which a smile contended with a blush, 
and her eyes which looked ever at Shafton when he looked else- 
where, and wei'e dropped at once when they encountered his, 
that she was irresistible ! In fine, the affectionate delicacy of her 
whole demeanour, joined to the promptitude and boldness she had 
so lately evinced, tended to ennoble the services she had rendered, 
as if some 

‘ ‘ sweet engaging Grace 

Put on some clothes to come abroad, 

And took a waiter’s place.” 

But, on the other hand, came the damning reflection, that these 
duties were not taught her by Love, to serve the beloved only, 
but arose from the ordinary and natural habits of a miller’s 
daughter, accustomed, doubtless, to render the same service to 
every wealthier churl who frequented her father’s mill. This 
stopped the mouth of vanity, and of the love which vanity had 
been hatching, as effectually as a peck of literal flour would have 
done. 

Amidst this variety of emotions. Sir Piercie Shafton forgot not 
to ask the object of them to sit down and partake the good cheer 
which she had been so anxious to provide and to place in order. 
He expected that this invitation would have been bashfully, per- 
haps, but certainly most thankfully, accepted ; but he was partly 
flattered, and partly piqued, by the mixture of deference and 
resolution with which Mysie dechned his invitation. Immediately 
after, she vanished from the apartment, leaving the Euphuist to 
consider whether he was most gratified or displeased by her dis- 
appearance. 

In fact, this was a point on which he would have found it diffi- 
cult to make up his mind, had there been any necessity for it. 
As there was none, he drank a few cups of claret, and sang (to 
himself) a strophe or two of the canzonettes of the divine Astro- 
phel. IBut in spite both of wine and of Sir Philip Sidney, the 
connection in which he now stood, and that which he was in future 
to hold, with the lovely Molinara, or Mysinda, as he had been 
pleased to denominate Mysie Happer, recurred to his mind. The 
fashion of the times (as we have ah’eady noticed) fortunately 
coincided with his own natm'al generosity of disposition, which 
indeed amounted almost to extravagance, in prohibiting, as a 
deadly sin, alike against gallantry, chivahy, and morality, his 
rewarding the good offices he had received from this poor maiden, 
by abusing any of the advantages which her confidence in his 
honour had afforded. To do Sir Piercie justice, it was an idea 
which never entered into his head ; and he would probably have 
dealt the most scientific imhroccata, stoccata, or punto reterso, 
which the school of Vincent Saviola had taught him, to any man 
who had dared to suggest to him such selfish and ungrateful 
meanness. On the other hand, he was a man, and foresaw various 


THE MONASTERY, 


276 

circumstances which might render their journey together in this 
intimate fashion a scandal and a snare. Moreover, he was a cox- 
comb and a courtier, and felt there was something ridiculous in 
travelling the land with a miller’s daughter behind his saddle, 
giving rise to suspicions not very creditable to either, and to 
ludicrous constructions, so far as he himself was concerned. 

“ I would,” he said half aloud, “ that, if such might be done 
without harm or discredit to the too-ambitious, yet too-well-dis- 
tinguishing Molinara, she and I w’ere fairly severed, and bound on 
our different courses ; even as we see the goodly vessel bound for 
the distant seas hoist sails and bear away into the deep, while the 
humble fly-boat carries to shore those friends, who, with wounded 
hearts and watery eyes, have committed to their higher destinies 
the more daring adventurers by whom the fair frigate is 
manned.” 

He had scarce uttered the wish when it was gratified ; for the 
host entered to say that his worshipful knighthood’s horse was 
ready to be brought forth as he had desired ; and on his inquiry 
for “ the — the damsel — that is — the young woman ” 

“ Mysie Happer,” said the landlord, “lias returned to her 
father’s ; but she bade me say, you could not miss the road for 
Edinburgh, in respect it was neither far way nor foul gate.” 

It is seldom we are exactly blessed with the precise fulfilment 
of our wishes at the moment when we utter them ; perhaps 
because Heaven wisely withholds what, if granted, would be often 
received with ingratitude. So at least it chanced in the present 
instance ; for when mine host said that Mysie was returned home- 
ward, the knight was tempted to reply, with an ejaculation of 
surprise and vexation, and a hasty demand, whither and when 
she had departed ? The first emotions his prudence suppressed, 
the second found utterance. 

“Where is she gane?” said the host, gazing on him, and 
repeating his question — “ Slie is gane hame to her father’s, it is 
like — and she gaed just when she gave orders about your 
worship’s horse, and saw it well fed, (she might have trusted me, 
but millers and millers’ kin think a’ body as tliief-like as them- 
selves,) an’ she ’s three miles on the gate by this time.” 

“ Is she gone tlien ?” muttered Sir Piercie, making two or 
three hasty strides through the narrow apartment — “Is she 
gone ? — Well, then, let her go. She could have had but disgrace 
by abiding by me, and I little credit by her society. That I 
should have thought there was such difficulty in shaking her off ! 
I warrant she is by this time laughing with some clown she has 
encountered ; and my rich chain will prove a good dowry. — And 
ought it not to prove so ? and has she not deserved it, were it ten 
times more valuable ?— Piercie Shafton ! Piercie Shafton ! dost 
thou grudge thy deliverer the guerdon she hath so dearly won ? 
'J'lie selfish air of this northern land hath infected thee, Piercie 
Shafton ! and blighted the blossoms of thy generosity, even as it 


THE MONASTERY. 


217 

is said to shrivel the flowers of the mulberry. — Yet I thought,” 
he added, after a moment’s pause, “ that she would not so easily 
and voluntarily have parted from me. But it skills not thinking 
of it. — Cast my reckoning, mine host, and let your groom lead 
forth my nag.” 

The good host seemed also to have some mental point to 
discuss, for he answered not instantly, debating perhaps whether 
his conscience would bear a double charge for the same guests. 
Apparently his conscience replied in the negative, though not 
without hesitation, for he at length replied — “ It’s daffing to lee ; 
it winna deny that the lawing is clean paid. Ne’ertheless, if your 
worshipful knighthood pleases to give aught for increase of 
trouble ” 

“ How!” said the knight ; “ the reckoning paid ? and by whom, 
I pray you 

“ E’en by Mysie Happer, if truth maun be spoken, as I said 
before,” answered the honest landlord, with as many compunctious 
visitings for telling the verity as another might have felt for 
making a lie in the circumstances — “ And out of the moneys 
supplied for your honour’s journey by the Abbot, as she tauld to 
me. And laith were I to surcharge any gentleman that darkens 
my dooi’s.” He added in the confidence of honesty which his 
frank avowal entitled him to entertain, “ Nevertheless, as I said 
before, if it pleases your knighthood of free good-will to consider 
extraordinary trouble ” 

The knight cut short his argument, by throwing the landlord a 
rose-noble, which probably doubled the value of a Scottish reckon- 
ing, though it would have defrayed but a half one at the Three 
Cranes ot the Vintry. The bounty so much delighted mine host, 
that he ran to fill the stirrup-cup (for which no charge was ever 
made) from a butt yet charier than that which he had pierced for 
the former stoup. The knight paced slowly to horse, partook of 
his courtesy, and thanked him with the stiff' condescension of the 
court of Elizabeth ; then mounted and followed the northern 
path, which was pointed out as the nearest to Edinburgh, and 
which, though very unlike a modern higlnvay, bore yet so distinct 
a resemblance to a public and frequented road as not to be easily 
mistaken. 

“ I shall not need her guidance it seems,” said he to himself, as 
he rode slowdy on^vard ; “ and I suppose that was one reason of 
her abrupt departure, so different from what one might have 
expected. — Well, I am w'cll rid of her. Do w'o not pray to be 
liberated from temptation 1 Yet that she should have erred so 
much in estimation of her own situation and mine, as to think of 
defraying the reckoning I I would I saw her once more, but to 
explain to her the solecism of which her inexperience hath ren- 
dered her guilty. And I fear,” he added, as he emerged from 
some straggling trees, and looked out upon a wild moorish country, 
composed of a succession of swelling lumpish hills, “ I fear I shall 


THE MONASTERY. 


‘27S 


soon want the aid of this Ariadne, who might afford me a clew 
through the recesses of yonder mountainous labyrinth.” 

As the Knight thus communed with liimself, his attention was 
caught by the sound of a horse’s footsteps ; and a lad, mounted 
on a little gray Scottish nag, about fourteen hands high, coming 
along a path which led from behind the trees, joined him on the 
high-road, if it could be termed such. 

The dress of the lad was completely in village fashion, yet neat 
and handsome in appearance. He had a jerkin of gray cloth 
slashed and trimmed, with black hose of the same, with deer-skin 
rullions or sandals, and handsome silver spurs. A cloak of a dark 
mulberry colour was closely drawn round the upper part of his 
person, and the cape in part muffled his face, which Avas also 
obscured by his bonnet of black velvet cloth, and its little plume 
of feathers. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, fond of society, desirous also to have a 
guide, and, moreover, prepossessed in favour of so handsome a 
youth, failed not to ask him whence he came, and whither he wns 
going. The youth looked another way, as he answered, that he 
was going to Edinburgh, “ to seek service in some nobleman’s 
family.” 

" 1 fear me you have run away from your last master,” said Sir 
Piercie, “ since you dare not look me in the face while you answer 
my question.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I have not,” answered the lad, bashfully, while, 
as if with reluctance, he turned rc-und his face, and instantly with- 
dreAv it. It was a glance, but the discovery was complete. There 
was no mistaking the dark full eye, the cheek in which much 
embarrassment could not altogether disguise an expression of 
comic humour, and the whole figure at once betrayed, under her 
metamorphosis, the Maid of the Mill. The recognition was joy- 
ful, and Sir Piercie Shafton was too much pleased to have regained 
his companion to remember the A'^ery good reasons Avhich had 
consoled him for losing her. 

To his questions respecting her dress, she answered, that she 
had obtained it in the Kirk-toAvn from a friend ; it Avas the holiday 
suit of a son of hers, Avho had taken the field with his liege-lord, 
the baron of the land. She had borrowed the suit under pretence 
she meant to play in some mumming or rural masquerade. She 
had left, she said, her OAvn apparel in exchange, Avhich Avas better 
Avorth ten croAvns than this Avas Avorth four. 

“And the nag, my ingenious Molinara,” said Sir Piercie, 
“ Avhence comes the nag 1” 

“ I borroAved him from our host at the Gled’s-Nest,” she replied ; 
and added, half stifling a laugh, “ he has sent to get, instead of it, 
our Ball, Avhich I left in the Tasker’s Park at Cripplecross. He 
will be lucky if he find it there.” 

“But then the poor man Avill lose his horse, most argute 
Mysinda,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, Avhose English notions of 


THE MONASTERY. 


210 

property were a little startled at a mode of acquisition more con- 
genial to the ideas of a miller’s daughter (and he a Border miller 
to hoot) than with those of an English person of quality. 

And if he does lose his horse,” said Mysie, laughing, “ surely 
he is not the first man on the marches who has had such a mis- 
chance. But he will be no loser, for I warrant he will stop the 
value out of moneys which he has owed my father tliis many a 
day.” 

“ But then your father will be the loser,” objected yet again 
the pertinacious uprightness of Sir Piercie Shafton. 

“ What signifies it now to talk of my father?” said the damsel, 
pettishly ; then instantly changing to a tone of deep feeling, she 
added, “ My father has this day lost that which will make him 
hold light the loss of all the gear he has left.” 

Struck with the accents of remorseful sorrow in which his 
companion uttered these few words, the English knight felt him- 
self bound both in honour and conscience to expostulate with her 
as strongly as he could, on the risk of the step which she had 
now taken, and on the propriety of her returning to her father’s 
house. The matter of his discourse, though adorned with many 
unnecessary flourishes, was honourable both to his head and 
heart. 

The Maid of the Mill listened to his flowing periods with her 
head sank on her bosom as she rode, like one in deep thought or 
deeper sorrow. When he had finished, she raised up her counte- 
nance, looked full on the knight, and replied with great firmness 
— “If you are weary of my company. Sir Piercie Shafton, you 
have but to say so, and the Miller’s daughter will be no farther 
cumber to you. And do not think I will be a burden to you, ii 
we travel together to Edinburgh ; I have wit enough and pride 
enough to be a willing burden to no man. But if you reject not 
my company at present, and fear not it will be burdensome to 
you hereafter, speak no more to me of returning back. All that 
you can say to me I have said to myself ; and that I am now here, 
is a sign that I have said it to no pui’pose. Let this subject, 
thereibre, be for ever ended betwixt us. I have already, in some 
small fashion, been useful to you, and the time may come I may 
be more so ; for this is not your land of England, where men say 
justice is done with little fear or favour to great and to small ; but 
it is a land where men do by the strong hand, and defend by the 
ready wit, and I know better than you the pei’ils you are exposed 
to.” 

Sir Piercie Shafton was somewhat mortified to find that the 
damsel conceived her presence useful to him as a protectress as 
well as guide, and said something of seeking protection from 
nought save his own arm and his good sword. Mysie answered 
very quietly, that she nothing doubted his bravery ; but it was 
that very quality of bravery which was most likely to involve him 
in danger. Sir Piercie Shafton, whose head never kept very long 


THE MONASTERY. 


280 

in any continued train of thinking, acquiesced without much reply, 
resolving in his own mind that the maiden only used this apology 
to disguise her real motive, of affection to his person. The 
romance of the situation flattered his vanity and elevated his 
imagination, as placing him in the situation of one of those 
romantic heroes of whom he had read the histories, where 
similar transformations made a distinguished figure. 

He took many a sidelong glance at his page, wdiose habits of 
country sport and country exercise had rendei’ed her quite ade- 
quate to sustain the character she had assumed. She managed 
the little nag with dexterity, and even with grace ; nor did any 
thing appear that could have betrayed her disguise, except Avhen 
a bashful consciousness of her companion’s eye being fixed on her, 
gave her an appearance of temporary embarrassment, which 
greatly added to her beauty. 

The couple rode forward as in the morning, pleased with them- 
selves and with each other, until they arrived at the village where 
they were to repose for the night, and where all the inhabitants 
of the little inn, both male and female, joined in extolling the good 
grace and handsome countenance of the English knight, and the 
uncommon beauty of his youthful attendant. 

It was here that Mysie Happer first made Sir Piercie Shafton 
sensible of the reserved manner in wdiich she proposed to live 
with him. She announced him as her master, and, waiting upon 
him with the reverent demeanour of an actual domestic, permitted 
not the least approach to familiarity, not even such as the loiight 
might with the utmost innocence have ventured upon. For ex- 
ample, Sir Piercie, who, as we know, was a great connoisseur in 
dress, was detailing to her the advantageous change which he 
proposed to make in her attire as soon as they should reach Edin- 
burgh, by arraying her in his own colours of pink and carnation. 
Mysie Happer listened with great complacency to the unction 
with which he dilated upon welts, laces, slashes, and trimmings, 
until, carried away by the enthusiasm with which he was asserting 
the superiority of the falling band over the Spanish ruff, he 
approached his hand, in the way of illustration, towards the 
collar of his page’s doublet. She instantly stepped back and 
gravely reminded him that she was alone and under his protec- 
tion. 

“You cannot but I’emember the cause which has brought me 
here,” she continued ; “ make the least approach to any familiarity 
which you would not offer to a princess surrounded by her court, 
and you have seen the last of the Miller’s daughter — She Avill 
vanish as the chaff disappears from the shieling-hill,* when the 
west wind blows.” 

“ I do protest, fair Molinara,” said Sir Piercie Shafton — but 
the fair Molinai’a had disappeared before his protest could be 

* The place where corn was winnowed, while that operation was performed 
by the hand, was called in Scotland the Shieling-hill. 


THE MONASTERY. 


281 

uttered. “A most singular wench,” said he to himself ; “ and by 
this hand, as discreet as she is fair-featured — Certes, shame it 
were to offer her scathe or dishonour ! She makes similes too, 
though somewhat savouring of her condition. Had she but read 
Euphues, and forgotten that accursed mill and shieling-hill, it is 
my thought that her converse would be broidered with as many 
and as choice pearls of compliment, as that of the most rhetorical 
lady in the court of Feliciana. I trust she means to return to 
bear me company.” 

But that was no part of Mysie’s prudential scheme. It was 
then drawing to dusk, and he saw her not again until the next 
morning, when the horses were brought to the door that they 
might prosecute their journey. 

^ But our story hero necessarily leaves the English knight and 
his page, to return to the Tower of Glendearg. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

You call it an ill angel — it may be so ; 

But sure I am, among the ranks which fell, 

’Tis the first fiend e’er counsell'd man to rise. 

And win the bliss the sprite liimself had forfeited. 

Old Play. 

We must resume our narrative at the period when Mary 
Avenel was conveyed to the apartment which had been formerly 
occupied by the two Glendinnings, and when her faithful atten- 
dant, Tibbie, had exhausted herself in useless attempts to com- 
pose and to comfort her. Father Eustace also dealt forth with 
well-meant kindness those apothegms and dogmata of consolation, 
which friendship almost always offers to grief, though they arc 
uniformly offered in vain. She was at length left to indulge in 
the desolation of her own sorrowful feelings. She felt as those 
who, loving for the first time, have lost what they loved, before 
time and repeated calamity have taught them that every loss is 
to a certain extent reparable or endurable. 

Such grief may be conceived better than it can be described, as 
is well known to those who have experienced it. But Mary 
Avenel had been taught by the peculiarity of her situation, to 
i-egard herself as the Child of Destiny ; and the melancholy and 
reflecting turn of her disposition gave to her sorrows a depth and 
breadth peculiar to her character. The grave — and it Avas a 
bloody grave — had closed, as she believed, over the youth to 
whom she Avas secretly, but most Avarmly attached ; the force and 
ardour of Halbert’s character bearing a singular correspondence 
to the energy of which her OAvn AV'as capable. Her sorroAv did 
not exhaust itself in sighs and tears, but when the first shock 
had passed away, concentrated itself Avith deep and steady medita- 


282 


THE MONASTERY. 


tion, to collect and calculate, like a bankrupt debtor, the full 
amount of her loss. It seemed as if all that connected her with 
earth, had vanished with this broken tie. She had never dared 
to anticipate the probability of an ultimate union with Halbert, 
yet now his supposed fall seemed that of the only tree which was 
to shelter her from the storm. She respected the more gentle 
character, and more peaceful attainments, of the younger 
Glendinning; but it had not escaped her (what never indeed 
escaped woman in such circumstances) that he was disposed to 
place himself in competition with what she, the daughter of a 
proud and warlike race, deemed the more manly qualities of his 
elder brother ; and there is no time when a woman does so little 
justice to the character of a surviving lover, as when comparing 
him with the preferred rival of whom she has been recently 
deprived. 

The motherly, but coarse kindness of Dame Glendinning, and 
the doating fondness of her old domestic, seemed now the only 
kind feeling of which she formed the object ; and she could not 
but reflect how little these were to be compared with the devoted 
attachment of a high-souled youth, whom the least glance of her 
eye could command, as the high-mettled steed is governed by the 
bridle of the rider. It was when plunged among these desolating 
reflections, that Mary Avenel felt the void of mind, arising from 
the narrow and bigoted ignorance in which Rome then educated 
the children of her church. Their whole religion was a ritual, 
and their prayers were the formal iteration of unknown words, 
which, in the hour of affliction, could yield but little consolation to 
those who from habit resorted to them. Unused to the practice 
of mental devotion, and of personal approach to the Divine 
Presence by prayer, she could not help exclaiming in her 
distress, “ There is no aid for me on earth, and I know not hou 
to ask it from Heaven !” 

As she spoke thus in an agony of sorrow, she cast her eyes into 
the apartment, and saw the mysterious Spirit, which waited upon 
the fortunes of her house, standing in the moonlight in the midst 
of the room. The same form, as the reader knows, had more 
than once offei’ed itself to her sight ; and either her native bold- 
ness of mind, or some peculiarity attached to her from her birth, 
made her now look upon it without shrinking. But the White 
Lady of Avenel was now more distinctly visible, and more closely 
present, than she had ever before seemed to be, and Mary was 
appalled by her presence. She would, however, have spoken ; but 
there ran a tradition, that though others who had seen the White 
Lady had asked questions and received answers, yet those of the 
house of Avenel who had ventured to speak to her, had never 
long survived the colloquy. The figure, besides, as, sitting up in 
her bed, Mary Avenel gazed on it intently, seemed by its gestures 
to caution her to keep silence, and at the same time to bespeak 
attention. 


THE MONASTERY. 


283 


The White Lady then seemed to press one of the planks of tlie 
floor with her foot, while, in her usual low, melancholy, and 
musical chant, she repeated the following verses : 

“ Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead, 

Wliose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive, 

Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 
The Word, the Law, the Path, which thou dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could spirits shed , 

Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep. 

Shewing the road which I shall never tread. 

Though my foot points it. — Sleep, eternal sleep, 

Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot ! — 

But do not thou at human ills repine. 

Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot. 

For all the woes that wait frail Adam’s line — 

Stoop, then, and make it yours — I may not make it mine !’' 

The phantom stooped towards the floor as she concluded, as if 
with the intention of laying her hand on the hoard on whicli she 
stood. But ere she had completed that gesture, her form became 
indistinct, was presently only like the shade of a fleecy cloud, 
which passed betwixt earth and the moon, and was soon alto- 
gether invisible. 

A strong impression of fear, the first which she had experienced 
in her life to any agitating extent, seized upon the mind of Mary 
Avenel, and for a minute she felt a disposition to faint. She 
repelled it, however, mustered her courage, and addressed herself 
to saints and angels, as her church recommended. Broken 
slumbers at length stole on her exhausted mind and frame, and 
she slept until the dawn was about to arise, when she was 
awakened by the cry of “ Treason ! treason ! follow, follow !” which 
arose in the tower, when it was found that Piercie Shafton had 
made his escape. ^ 

Apprehensive of some new misfortune, Mary Avenel hastily 
arranged the dress which she had not laid aside, and, venturing 
to quit her chamber, learned from Tibb, who, with her gray hairs 
dishevelled like those of a sibyl, was flying from room to room, 
that the bloody Southron villain had made his escape, and that 
Halbert Glendinning, poor bairn, would sleep unrevenged and 
unquiet in his bloody grave. In the lower apartments, the young 
men were roaring like thunder, and venting in oaths and excla- 
mations against the fugitives the rage which they experienced in 
finding themselves locked up within the tower, and debarred from 
their vindictive pursuit by the wily precautions of Mysie Happer. 
The authoritative voice of the Sub-Pi’ior commanding silence was 
next heard ; upon which Mary Avenel, whose tone of feeling did 
not lead her to enter into counsel or society with the rest of the 
party, again retired to her solitary chamber. 

The rest of the family held counsel in the spence, Edward 
almost beside himself with rage, and the Sub-Prior in no small 
degree offended at the effrontery of Mysie Happer in attempting 
such a scheme, as well as at the mingled boldness and dexterity 


THE MONASTEIIV. 


284 

with which it had been executed. But neither surprise nor anger 
availed aught. The windows, w'ell secured with iron bars for 
keeping assailants out, proved now as effectual for detaining the 
inhabitants within. The battlements were open, indeed ; but 
without ladder or ropes to act as a substitute for wings, there was 
no possibility of descending from them. They easily succeeded 
in alarming the inhabitants of the cottages beyond the precincts of 
the court ; but the men had been called in to strengthen the guard 
for the night, and only women and children remained, who could 
contribute nothing in the emergency, except their useless excla- 
mations of surprise, and there were no neighbours for miles 
around. Dame Elspeth, however, though drowned in tears, was 
not so unmindful of external affairs, but that she could find voice 
enough to tell the women and children without, to “ leave their 
skirling, and look after the cows that she couldna get minded, 
what wi’ the awfu’ distraction of her mind, what wi’ that fause 
slut having locked them up in their ain tower as fast as if they 
had been in the Jeddart tolbooth.” 

Meanwile, the men finding other modes of exit impossible, 
unanimously concluded to force the doors with such tools as the 
house afforded for the purpose. These were not very proper for 
the occasion, and the strength of the doors was great. The inte- 
rior one, formed of oak, occupied them for three mortal hours, 
and there was little prospect of the iron door being forced in 
double the time. 

While they were engaged in this ungrateful toil, Mary Avenel 
had with much less labour acquired exact knowledge of what the 
Spirit had intimated in her mystic rhyme. On examining the 
spot which the phantom had indicated by her gestures, it was not 
difficult to discover that a board had been loosened, which migjit 
be raised at pleasure. On removing this piece of plank, Mary 
Avenel was astonished to find the Black Book, well remembered 
by her as her mother’s favourite study, of wdiich she immediately 
took possession, with as much joy as her present situation I’en- 
dered her capable of feeling. 

Ignorant in a great measure of its contents, Mary Avenel had 
been taught from her infancy to hold this volume in sacred vene- 
ration. It is probable that the deceased Lady of Walter Avenel 
only postponed initiating her daughter into the mysteries of the 
Divine Word, until she should be better able to comprehend both 
the lessons which it taught, and the risk at which, in those times, 
tliey were studied. Death interposed, and removed her before 
the times became favourable to the reformers, and before her 
daughter was so far advanced in age as to be fit to receive reli- 
gious instruction of this deep import. But the affectionate mother 
had made preparations for the earthly work which she had most 
at heart. There were slips of paper inserted in the volume, in 
which, by an appeal to, and a comparison of, various passages in 
holy writ, the errors and human inventions with which the Church 


THE MONASTERY. 


285 

of Rome had defaced the simple edifice of Christianity, as erected 
by its divine ai'chitect, were pointed out. These controversial 
topics were treated with a spirit of calmness and Christian charity, 
which might have been an example to the theologians of the 
period ; but they were clearly, fairly, and plainly argued, and 
supported by the necessary proofs and references. Other papers 
there were which had no reference whatever to polemics, but 
were the simple effusions of a devout mind communing with itself. 
Among these was one frequently used, as it seemed from the state 
of the manuscript, on which the mother of Mary had transcribed 
and placed together those affecting texts to which the heart has 
recourse in affliction, and which assures us at once of the sym- 
pathy and protection afforded to the children of the promise. In 
Mary Avenel’s state of mind, these attracted her above all the 
other lessons, which, coming from a hand so dear, had reached 
her at a time so critical, and in a manner so touching. She read 
the affecting promise, “ I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,” 
and the consoling exhortation, “ Call upon me in the day oi 
trouble, and I will deliver thee.” She read them, and her heart 
acquiesced in the conclusion. Surely this is the word of God ! 

There are those to whom a sense of religion has come in storm 
and tempest ; there are those whom it has summoned amid 
scenes of revelry and idle vanity ; there are those, too, who have 
heard its “ still small voice” amid rural leisure and placid con- 
tentment. But perhaps the luiowledge which causeth not to err, 
is most frequently impressed upon the mind during seasons oi 
affliction ; and tears are the softened showers which cause the 
seed of Heaven to spring and take root in the human breast. At 
least it was thus with Max'y Avenel. She was insensible to the 
discordant noise which rang below, the clang of bars and the jar- 
ring symphony of the levers which they used to force them, the 
measured shouts of the labouring inmates as they combined their 
strength for each heave, and gave time with their voices to the 
exertion of their arms, and their deeply muttered vows of revenge 
on the fugitives who had bequeathed them at their departure a 
task so toilsome and difficult. Not all this din, combined in 
liideous concert, and expressive of aught but peace, love, and 
forgiveness, could divert Mary Avenel from the new course of 
study on which she had so singularly entered. “ The serenity of 
Heaven,” she said, “ is above me ; the sounds which arc around 
are but tliose of earth and earthly passion.” 

Meanwhile the noon was passed, and little impression was 
made on the iron grate, when they who laboured at it received a 
sudden reinforcement by the unexpected arrival of Christie of the 
Clinthill. He came at the head of a small party, consisting of 
four horsemen, who bore in their caps the sprig of holly, which 
was the badge of Avenel. 

“ What, ho ! — my masters,” ho said, “ I bring you a 
prisoner.” 


286 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ You had better have brought us liberty,” said Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst. 

Christie looked at the state of affairs with great surprise. “ An 
I were to be hanged for it,” he said, “ as I may for as little a 
matter, I could not forbear laughing at seeing men peeping 
through their own bars like so many rats in a rat-trap, and he 
with the beard behind, like the oldest rat in the cellar.” 

“ Hush, thou unmannered knave,” said Edward, “ it is the 
Sub-Prior ; and this is neither time, place, nor company, for your 
ruffian jests.” 

What, ho ! is my young master malapert ?” said Christie ; 
“ why, man, were he my own carnal father, instead of being 
father to half the world, I would have my laugh out. And now 
it is over, I must assist you, I reckon, for you are setting very 
greenly about this gear — put the pinch nearer the staple, man, 
and hand me an iron crow through the grate, for that’s the fowl 
to fly away with a wicket on its shoulders. I have broke into as 
many grates as you have teeth in your young head — ay, and 
broke out of them too, as the captain of the Castle of Lochmaben 
knows full well.” 

Christie did not boast more skill than he really possessed ; for, 
applying their combined strength, under the direction of that 
experienced engineer, bolt and staple gave way before them, and 
in less than half an hour, the grate, which had so long repelled 
their force, stood open before them. 

“ And now,” said Edward, “ to horse, my mates, and pursue 
tlie villain Shaftont ’ 

“ Halt there,” said Christie of the Clinthill ; “ pursue your 
guest, my master’s friend and my own ? — there go two words 
to that bargain. What the foul fiend would you pursue him 
for 1” 

“ Let me pass,” said Edward, vehemently, “ I will be staid by 
no man — the villain has murdered my brother !” 

“ What says he ?” said Christie, turning to the others ; “ mur- 
dered ? who is murdered, and by whom ?” 

"The Englishman, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst, " has murdered young Halbert Glendiuning yester- 
day morning, and we have all risen to the fray.” 

“ It is a bedlam business, I think,” said Christie. " First 1 
find you all locked up in your own tower, and next I am come to 
prevent you revenging a murder that was never committed !” 

“ I tell you,” said Edward, " that my brother was slain and 
buried yesterday morning by this false Englishman.” 

" And I tell you,” answered Christie, " that I saw him alive 
and well last night. I would I knew his trick of getting out of 
the grave ; most men find it more hard to break through a green 
Bod than a grated door.” 

Every body now paused, and looked on Christie in astonish- 
ment, until the Sub-Prior, who had hitherto avoided communica- 


THE MONASTERY. 287 

tion with him, came up and required earnestly to know, whether 
he meant really to maintain that Halbert Giendinning lived. 

“ Father,” he said, with more respect than he usually shewed 
to any one save his master, " T confess I may sometimes jest 
with those of your coat, but not with you ; because, as you may 
partly recollect, I owe you a life. It is certain as the sun is in 
heaven, that Halbert Giendinning supped at the house of my 
master the Baron of Avenel last night, and that he came thither 
in company with an old man, of whom more anon.” 

“ And where is he now 1” 

“ The devil only can answer that question,” replied Christie, 

for the devil has possessed the whole family, I think. He took 
fright, the foolish lad, at something or other which our Baron 
did in his moody humour, and so he jumped into the lake and 
swam ashore like a wild-duck. Robin of Rcdcastle spoiled a 
good gelding in chasing him this morning.” 

“ And why did he chase the youth ?” said the Sub-Prior; “ what 
harm had he done !” 

“ None that I luiow of,” said Christie ; “ but such was the 
Baron’s order, being in his mood, and all the world having gone 
mad, as I have said before.” 

“ Whither away so fast, Edward ?” said the monk. 

“ To Corri-nan-shian, Father,” answered the youth. — “ Martin 
and Dan, take pick-axe and mattock, and follow me if you be 
men !” 

Right,” said the monk, “ and fail not to give us instant notice 
what you find.” 

“ If you find aught there like Halbert Giendinning,” said 
Christie, hallooing after Edward, " I will be bound to eat him 
unsalted. — ’Tis a sight to see now how that fellow takes the 
bent! — It is in the time of action men see what lads are made 
of. Halbert was aye skipping up and down like a roe, and his 
brother used to sit in the chimney-nook with his book and sick- 
like trusli — But the lad was like a loaded hackbut, which will 
stand in the corner as quiet as an old crutch until ye draw the 
trigger, and then there is nothing but flash and smoke. — But 
here comes my prisoner ; and, setting other matters aside, I must 
pray a word with you. Sir Sub-Prior, respecting him. I came 
on before to treat about him, but I was interrupted with this 
fasherie.” 

As he spoke, two more of Avenel’s troopers rode into the 
court-yard, leading betwixt them a horse, on which, with his 
hands bound to his side, sate the reformed preacher, Henry 
Warden, 


28S 


THE MONASTERY, 


CHAPTER XXXT. 

At school I knew him — a sharp-witted youth, 

Grave, thoughtful, and reserved among his mates. 

Turning tlie hours of sport and food to labour, 

Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play, 

The Sub-Prior, at the Borderer’s request, had not failed to 
return to the tower, into which he was followed by Christie of the 
Clinthill, who, shutting the door of the apartment, drew near, and 
began his discourse with great confidence and familiarity. 

“ My master,” he said, “ sends me with his commendations to 
you. Sir Sub-Prior, above all the community of Saint Mary’s, 
and more specially than even to the Abbot himself ; for though 
he be termed my lord, and so forth, all the world knows that you 
are the tongue of the trump.” 

“ If you have aught to say to me concerning the community,” 
said the Sub-Prior, “ it were well you proceeded in it without 
farther delay. Time presses, and the fate of young Glendinning 
dwells on my mind.” 

“ I will be caution for him, body for body,” said Christie. 

I do protest to you, as sure aa I am a living man, so surely is 
he one.” 

Should I not tell his unhappy mother the joyful tidings ?” 
said Father Eustace, — ‘‘and yet better wait till they return 
from searching the grave. Well, Sir Jackman, your message to 
me from your master ?” 

“ My lord and master,” said Christie, “ hath good reason to 
believe that, from the information of certain back friends, whom 
he will reward at more leisure, your reverend community hath 
been led to deem him ill attached to Holy Church, allied with 
heretics and those who favour heresy, and a hungerer after the 
spoils of your Abbey.” 

“ Be brief, good henchman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ for the 
devil is ever most to be feared when he preacheth.” 

“ Briefly, then — my master desires your friendship ; and to 
excuse himself from the maligners’ calumnies, he sends to your 
Abbot that Henry Warden, whose sermons have turned the 
world upside down, to be dealt with as Holy Church directs, and 
as the Abbot’s pleasure may determine.” 

The Sub-Prior’s eyes sparkled at the intelligence ; for it had 
been accounted a matter of great importance that this man should 
be arrested, possessed, as he was known to be, of so much zeal 
and popularity, that scarcely the preaching of Knox himself had 
bc'en more awakening to the people, and more formidable to the 
Church of Rome. 

In fact, that ancient system which so well accommodated its 


THE MONASTERY. 


280 

doctrines to the wants and wishes of a barbarous age, had, since 
the art of printing, and the gradual diffusion of knowledge, lain 
floating like some huge Leviathan, into which ten thousand 
reforming fishers were darting their harpoons. The Roman 
Church of Scotland, in particular, was at her last gasp, actually 
blowng blood and water, yet still with unremitted, though animal 
exertions, maintaining the conflict with the assailants, who on 
every side were plunging their weapons into her bulky body. In 
many large towns, the monasteries had been suppressed by the 
fury of the populace ; in other places, their possessions had been 
usurped by the power of the reformed nobles ; but still the 
hierarchy made a part of the common law of the realm, and might 
claim both its property and its privileges wherever it had the 
means of asserting them. The community of Saint Mary’s ot 
Kennaquhair Avas considered as being particularly in this situa- 
tion. They had retained, undiminished, their teri'itorial power 
and influence ; and the great barons in the neighbourhood, partly 
from their attachment to the party in the state who still upheld 
^he old system of religion, partly because each grudged the share 
sf the prey which the others must necessarily claim, had as yet 
abstained from despoiling the Halidome. The Community was 
also understood to be protected by the powerful Earls of Northum- 
berland and Westmoreland, whose zealous attachment to the 
Catliolic faith caused at a later period the great rebellion of the 
tenth of Elizabeth. 

Thus happily placed, it was supposed by the friends of the 
decaying cause of the Roman Catholic faith, that some determined 
example of courage and resolution, exercised Avhere the franchises 
of the church were yet entire, and her jurisdiction undisputed, 
might awe the progress of the new opinions into activity : and, 
protected by the laAVS which still existed, and by the favour of the 
sovereign, might be the means of securing the territory which 
Rome yet preserved in Scotland, and perhaps of recovering that 
which she had lost. 

The matter had been considered more than once by the northern 
Catholics of Scotland, and they had held communication Avith 
those of the south. Father Eustace, deA'oted by his public and 
private vows, had caught the flame, and had eagerly advised that 
they should execute the doom of heresy on the^first reformed 
preacher, or, according to his sense, on the first heretic of emi- 
nence, Avho should venture Avithin the precincts of the Halidome. 
A heart, naturally kind and noble, Avas, in this instance, as it has 
been in many more, deceived by its own generosity. Father 
Eustace Avould have been a bad administrator of the inquisitorial 
poAver of Spain, Avhere that poAver Avas omnipotent, and where 
judgment was exercised Avithout danger to those Avho inflicted it. 
In such a situation his rigour might have relented in favour of 
the criminal, Avhom it Avas at his pleasure to crush or to place at 
freedom. But in Scotland, during this crisis, the case Avas entirely 
X. X 


THE MONASTERY. 


290 

different. The question was, whether one of the spirituality 
dared, at the hazard of his own life, to step forward to assert and 
exercise the rights of the church. Was there any one who would 
venture to wield the thunder in her cause, or must it remain like 
tliat in the hand of a painted Jupiter, the object of derision instead 
of terror ? The crisis was calculated to awake tlie soul of Eustace; 
for it comprised the question, whether he dared, at all hazards to 
himself, to execute with stoical severity a measure which, accor- 
ding to the general opinion, was to be advantageous to the church, 
and, according to ancient law, and to his firm belief, was not only 
iustifiable but meritorious. 

While such resolutions were agitated amongst the Catholics, 
chance placed a victim within their grasp. Henry Warden had, 
with the animation proper to the enthusiastic reformers of the 
age, transgressed, in the vehemence of his zeal, the bounds of the 
discretional liberty allowed to his sect so far, that it was thought 
the Queen’s personal dignity was concerned in bringing him to 
justice. He fled from Edinburgh, wdth recommendations, how- 
ever, from Lord James Stewart, afterwards the celebrated Earl 
of Murray, to some of the Border chieftains of inferior rank, who 
were privately conjured to procure him safe passage into England. 
One of the principal persons to whom such recommendation was 
addressed, was Julian Avenel ; for as yet, and for a considerable 
time afterwards, the correspondence and interest of Lord James 
lay rather with the subordinate leaders than wfth the chiefs of 
great power, and men of distinguished influence upon the Border. 
Julian Avenel had intrigued without scruple with both parties — 
yet bad as he was, he certainly would not have practised aught 
against the guest whom Lord James had recommended to his 
hospitality, had it not been for what he termed the preacher’s 
officious intermeddling in his family affairs. But when he had 
determined to make Warden rue the lecture he had read him, 
and the scene of public scandal which he had caused in his hall, 
Julian resolved, with the constitutional shrewdness of his dis- 
position, to combine his vengeance with his interest. And there- 
fore, instead of doing violence on the person of Henry Warden 
within his own castle, he determined to deliver him up to the 
Community of Saint Mary’s, and at once make them the instru- 
ments of his ow'ii revenge, and found a claim of personal recom- 
pense, either in money, or in a grant of Abbey lands at a low 
quit-rent, which last began now to be the established form in which 
the temporal nobles plundered tlie spirituality. 

The Sub-Prior, therefore, of Saint Mary’s, unexpectedly saw 
the steadfast, active, and inflexible enemy of the church delivered 
into his hand, and felt himself called upon to make good his pro- 
mises to the friends of the Catholic faith, by quenching heresy in 
the blood of one of its most zealous professors. 

To the honour more of Father Eustace’s heart than of liis con- 
sistency, the commuiiicatiou tliat Henry Warden was placed 


THE MONASTERY. 


291 

within his power, struck him ^vith more sorrow than triumph ; but 
his next feelings were those of exultation. “ It is sad,” he said to 
himself, “ to cause human suffering, it is awful to cause human 
blood to be spilled ; but the judge to whom the sword of Saint 
Paul, as well as the keys of Saint Peter, are confided, must not 
flinch from his task. Our weapon returns into our own bosom, if 
not wielded with a steady and unrelenting hand against the irre- 
concilable enemies of the Holy Church. Pereat iste ! It is the 
doom he has incurred, and were all the heretics in Scotland armed 
and at his back, they should not prevent its being pronounced, 
and, if possible, enforced. — Bring the heretic before me,” he said, 
issuing his commands aloud, and in a tone of authority. 

Henry Warden was led in, his hands still bound, but his feet at 
liberty. 

“Clear the apartment,” said the Sub-Pi’ior, “of all but the 
necessary guard on the prisoner.” 

All retired excepting Christie of the Clinthill, who, having dis- 
missed the inferior troopers whom he commanded, unsheathed his 
sword, and placed himself beside the door, as if taking upon him 
the character of sentinel. 

The judge and the accused met face to face, and in that of both 
was enthroned the noble confidence of rectitude. The monk was 
about, at the utmost risk to himself and his community, to exer- 
cise what in his ignorance he conceived to be his duty. The 
preacher, actuated by a better-infonned, yet not a more ardent 
zeal, was prompt to submit to execution for God’s sake, and to 
seal, were it necessary, his mission with his blood. Placed at such 
a distance of time as better enables us to appreciate the tendency 
of the principles on which they severally acted, we cannot doubt 
to which the palm ought to be awarded. But the zeal of Father 
Eustace was as free from passion and personal views as if it had 
been exerted in a better cause. 

They approached each other, armed each and prepared for 
intellectual conflict, and each intently regarding his opponent, as 
if either hoped to spy out some defect, some chasm in the ai'mour 
of his antagonist. As they gazed on each other, old recollections 
began to awake in either ^som, at the sight of features long 
unseen and much altered, but not forgotten. The brow of the 
Sub-Prior dismissed by degrees its frown of command, the look of 
calm yet stern defiance gradually vanished from that of Warden, 
and both lost for an instant that of gloomy solemnity. They had 
been ancient and intimate friends in youth at a foreign university, 
but had been long separated from each other ; and the change of 
name, which the preacher had adopted from motives of safety, 
and the monk from the common custom of the convent, had pre- 
vented the possibility of their hitherto recognizing each other in 
the opposite parts which they had been playing in the great 
polemical and political drama. But now the Sub-Prior exclaimed, 
“ Henry Wellwood I” and the preacher replied, “'William Allan I” 


THE MONASTERY. 


292 

■ — and, stirred by the old familiar names, and never-to-be-forgot- 
ten recollections of college studies and college intimacy, their 
hands were for a moment locked in each other. 

“ Remove his bonds,” said the Sub-Prior, and assisted Cliristie 
in performing that office with his own hands, although the prisoner 
scarcely would consent to be unbound, repeating with emphasis, 
that he rejoiced in the cause for which he suffered shame. When 
his hands were at liberty, however, he shewed his sense of tho 
kindness by again exchanging a grasp and a look of affection with 
the Sub-Prioi'. 

The salute was frank and generous on either side, yet it was 
but the friendly recognition and greeting which are wont to take 
place betwixt adverse champions, who do nothing in hate but all 
in honour. As each felt the pressure of the situation in which 
they stood, he quitted the grasp of the other’s hand, and fell back, 
confronting each other with looks more calm and sorrowful than 
expressive of any other passion. The Sub-Prior was the first to 
speak. 

“ And is this, then, the end of that restless activity of mind, 
that bold and indefatigable love of truth that urged investigation 
to its utmost limits, and seemed to take heaven itself by storm — 
is this the termination of Wellwood’s career? — And having 
known and loved him during the best years of our youth, do we 
meet in our old age as judge and criminal?” 

“ Not as judge and criminal,” said Henry Warden, — for to 
avoid confusion we describe him by his later and best known 
name — “Not as judge and criminal do we meet, but as a mis- 
guided oppressor and his ready and devoted victim. I, too, may 
ask, are these the harvest of the rich hopes excited by the classical 
learning, acute logical powers, and varied knowledge of William 
Allan, that he should sink to be the solitary drone of a cell, graced 
only above the swarm with the high commission of executing 
Roman malice on all who oppose Roman imposture ?” 

“Not to thee,” answered the Sub-Prior, “be assured — not 
unto thee, nor unto mortal man, vdll I render an account of the 
power with which the church may have invested me. It was 
granted but as a deposit for her welfare — for her welfare it 
ffiall at every risk be exercised, without fear and without 
favour.” 

“ I expected no less from your misguided zeal,” answered the 
preacher; “and in me have you met one on whom you may 
fearlessly exercise your authority, secure that his mind at least 
will defy your influence, as the snows of that Mont Blanc which 
we saw together, shrink not under the heat of the hottest summer 
sun.” 

“ I do believe thee,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I do believe that 
thjne IS indeed metal unmalleable by force. Let it yield then to 
persuasion. Let us debate these matters of faith, as we once were 
wont to conduct our scholastic disputes, when hours, nay, days, 


THE MONASTERY. 


293 


glided past in the mutual exercise of our intellectual powers. It 
may be thou mayst yet hear the voice of the shepherd, and return 
to the universal fold.” 

‘‘ No, Allan,” replied the prisoner, ‘‘ this is no vain question, 
devised by dreaming scholiasts, on which they may whet their 
intellectual faculties until the very metal be wasted away. The 
errors which I combat are like those fiends which are only cast 
out by fasting and prayer. Alas ! not many wise, not many 
learned are chosen ; the cottage and the hamlet shall in our days 
bear witness against the schools and their disciples. Thy very 
wisdom, which is foolishness, hath made thee, as the Greeks of 
old, hold as foolishness that which is the only true wisdom.” 

“ This,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, is the mere cant of 
ignol’ant enthusiasm, which appealeth from learning and from 
authority, from the sure guidance of that lamp which God hath 
afforded us in the Councils and in the Fathers of the Church, to 
a rash, self-willed, and arbitrary interpretation of the Scriptures, 
wrested according to the private opinion of each speculating 
heretic.” 

“ disdain to reply to the charge,” replied Warden. “ The 
question at issue between your church and mine, is, whether we 
will be judged by the Holy Scriptures, or by the devices and 
decisions of men not less subject to error than ourselves, and 
who have defaced our holy religion with vain devices, reared up 
idols of stone and wood, in form of those, who, when they lived, 
were but sinful creatures, to share the w’orship due only to the 
Creator — established a toll-house betwixt heaven and hell, that 
profitable purgatory of which the Pope keeps the keys, like an 
iniquitous judge commutes punishment for bribes, and ” 

“ Silence, blasphemer,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “ or I will 
have thy blatant obloquy stopped with a gag !” 

“ Ay,” replied Warden, “ such is the freedom of the Christian 
confei’ence to which Rome’s priests so kindly invite us ! — the 
gag — the rack — the axe — is the ratio ultima JRomce. But know 
thou, mine ancient friend, that the character of thy former com- 
panion is not so changed by age, but that he still dares to endure 
for the cause of truth all that thy proud hierarchy shall dare to 
inflict.” 

“ Of that,” said the monk, “ I nothing doubt — Thou wert ever 
a lion to turn against the spear of the hunter, not a stag to be 
dismayed at the sound of his bugle.” — He walked through the 
room in silence. Wellwood,” he said at length, “ we can no 
longer be friends. Our faith, our hope, our anchor on futurity, 
is no longer the same.” 

Deep is my sorrow that thou speakest truth. May God so 
judge me,” said the Reformer, as I would buy the conversion 
of a soul like thine with my dearest heart’s blood.” 

«To thee, and with better reason, do I return the wish,” 
replied the Sub-Prior ; ‘‘ it is such an arm as thine that should 


294 , THE MONASTERY. 

defend the bulwarks of the Church, and it is now directing the 
battering-ram against them, and rendering practicable the breach 
through which all that is greedy, and aU that is base, and all that 
is mutable and hot-headed in this innovating age, already hope 
to advance to destruction and to spoil. But since such is our 
fate, that we can no longer fight side by side as friends, let us at 
least act as generous enemies. You cannot have forgotten, 

‘ O gran bonta dei cavalieri antiqui ! 

Erano nemici, eran’ de fede diversa’ — 

Although, perhaps,” he added, stopping short in his quotation, 
“ your new faith forbids you to reserve a place in your memory, 
even for what high poets have recorded of loyal faith and gene- 
rous sentiment.” 

“ The faith of Buchanan,” replied the preacher, " the faith of 
Buchanan and of Beza cannot be unfriendly to literature. But 
the poet you have quoted affords strains fitter for a dissolute court 
than for a convent.” 

“ I might retort on your Theodore Beza,” said the Sub-Prior, 
smiling; ‘^but I hate the judgment that, like the flesh-fly, skims 
over whatever is sound, to detect and settle upon some sp«t which 
is tainted. But to the purpose. If I conduct thee or send thee 
a prisoner to Saint Mary’s, thou art to-night a tenant of the 
dungeon, to-morrow a bm’den to the gibbet-tree. If I were to 
let thee go hence at large, I were thereby wronging the Holy 
Church, and breaking mine own solemn vow. Other resolutions 
may be adopted in the capital, or better times may speedily ensue. 
Wilt thou remain a true prisoner upon thy parole, rescue or no 
rescue, as is the phrase amongst the warriors of this country ? 
Wilt thou solemnly promise that thou wilt do so, and that at my 
summons thou wilt present thyself before the Abbot and Chapter 
at Saint Mary’s, and that thou wilt not stir from this house above 
a quarter of a mile in any direction ? Wilt thou, I say, engage 
me thy word for this 1 and such is tlie sure trust which I repose 
in thy good faith, that thou shalt remain here unharmed and 
unsecured, a prisoner at large, subject only to appear before our 
court when called upon.” 

The preacher paused — “I am unwilling,” he said, ‘‘ to fetter 
my native liberty by any self-adopted engagement. But I am 
already in your power, and you may bind me to my answer. By 
such promise, to abide within a certain limit, and to appear when 
called upon, I renounce not any liberty which I at present possess, 
and am free to exercise ; but, on the contrary, being in bonds, 
and at your mercy, I acquire thereby a liberty which I at present 
possess not. I will therefore accept of thy profier, as what is 
courteously offered on thy part, and may be honourably accepted 
on mine.” 

Stay yet,” said the Sub-Prior, “ one important part of thy 
engagement is forgotten — thou art farther to promise, that while 


THE MONASTERY. 


295 

thus left at liberty, thou wilt not preach or teach, directly f»r . 
indirectly, any of those pestilent heresies by which so many soi^a 
have been in this our day won over from the kingdom of light to 
the kingdom of darkness.” 

“There we break off our treaty,” said Warden, firmly — 
“Wo unto me if I preach not the Gospel !” 

The Sub-Prior’s countenance became clouded, and he again 
paced the apartment, and muttered, “ A plague upon the self-willed 
fool !” then stopped short in his walk, and proceeded in his argu- 
ment. — “ Why, by thine own reasoning, Henry, thy refusal here 
is but peevish obstinacy. It is in my power to place you where 
your preaching can reach no human ear ; in promising therefore 
to abstain from it, you grant nothing which you have it in your 
power to refuse.” 

“ I know not that,” replied Henry Warden ; “ thou mayest 
indeed cast me into a dungeon, but can I foretell that my Master 
hath not task-work for me to perform even in that dreary man- 
sion ? The chains of saints have, ere now, been the means of 
breaking the bonds of Satan. In a prison, holy Paul found the 
jailor whom he brought to believe the word of salvation, he and 
all his house.” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Pinor, in a tone betwixt anger and scorn, 
“if you match yourself witli the blessed Apostle, it were time 
we had done — prepare to endure what thy folly, as well as thy 
heresy, deserves. — Bind him, soldier.” 

With proud submission to his fate, and regarding the Sub-Prior 
with something which almost amounted to a smile of superiority, 
the preacher placed his arms so that the bonds could be again 
fastened round him. 

“ Spare me not,” he said to Christie ; for even that ruffian 
hesitated to draw the cord straitly. 

The Sub-Prior, meanwhile, looked at him from under his cowl, 
which he had drawn over his head, and partly over his face, as 
if he wished to shade his own emotions. They were those of a 
huntsman wdthin point-blr-nk shot of a noble stag, who is yet too 
much struck with his majesty of front and of antler to take aim 
at him. They were those of a fowler, who, levelling his gun at a 
magnificent eagle, is yet reluctant to use his advantage when he 
sees the noble sovereign of the birds pruning himself in proud 
defiance of whatever may be attempted against him. The heart 
of the Sub-Prior (bigoted as he was) relented, and he doubted if 
he ought to purchase by a rigorous discharge of what he deemed 
his duty, the remorse he might afterwards feel for the death of 
one so nobly independent in thought and character, the friend, 
besides, of his own happiest years, during w'hich they had, side by 
bide, striven in the noble race of knowledge, and indulged their 
intervals of repose in the lighter studies of classical and general 
letters. 

The Sub-Pi’ior’s hand pi-essed his half-o’ershadowed cheek, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


296 

his eye, more completely obscured, was bent on the ground, as if 
to hide the workings of his relenting nature. 

“ Were but Edward safe from the infection,” he thought to 
himself — Edward, whose eager and enthusiastic mind presses 
forward in the chase of all that hath even the shadow of know- 
ledge, I might trust this enthusiast with the women, after due 
caution to them that they cannot, without guilt, attend to his 
reveries.” 

As the Sub-Prior revolved these thoughts, and delayed the 
definitive order which was to determine the fate of the prisoner, 
a sudden noise at the entrance of the tower diverted his attention 
for an instant, and, his cheek and brow inflamed with all the glow 
of heat and determination, Edward Glendinning rushed into the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Tlien in my gown of sober gray 
Along tlie mountain path I ’ll wander, 

And wind my solitary way 
To the sad shrine that courts me yonder. 

There, in the calm monastic shade, 

All injuries may be forgiven ; 

And there for thee, obdurate maid. 

My orisons shall rise to heaven. 

The Cruel Lady of the Mountains. 

The first words which Edward uttered were, — “My brother 
is safe, reverend father — he is safe, thank God, and lives ! — 
There is not in Corri-nan-shian a grave, nor a vestige of a grave. 
The turf around the fountain has neither been disturbed by pick- 
axe, spade, nor mattock, since the deer’s-hair first sprang there. 
He lives as surely as I live ! ” 

The earnestness of the youth — the vivacity with which ho 
looked and moved — the springy step, outstretched hand, and 
ardent eye, reminded Henry Warden of Halbert, so lately his 
guide. The brothers had indeed a strong family resemblance, 
though Halbert was far more athletic and active in his person, 
taller and better knit in the limbs, and though Edward had, on 
ordinary occasions, a look of more habitual acuteness and more 
profound reflection. The preacher was interested as well as the 
Sub-Prior. 

“ Of whom do you speak, my son ?” he said, in a tone as un- 
concerned as if his own fate had not been at the same instant 
trembling in the balance, and as if a dungeon and death did not 
appear to be his instant doom — “ Of whom, I say, speak you I 
If of a youth somewhat older than you seem to be — brown- 
Iiaired, open-featured, taller and stronger than you appear, yet 
having much of tlue same jiir j^nd of the same tone of voice — if 


THE MONASTERY. 297 

such a one is the brother whom you seek, it may be I. can tell 
you news of him.” 

“Speak, then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edward — “life or 
death lies on thy tongue !” 

The Sub-Prior joined eagerly in the same request, and, with- 
out waiting to be urged, the preacher gave a minute account of 
the circumstances under which he met the elder Glendinning, 
with so exact a description of his person, that there remained no 
doubt as to his identity. When he mentioned that Halbert Glen- 
dinning had conducted him to the dell in which they found the 
grass bloody, and a grave newly closed, and told how the youth 
accused himself of the slaughter of Sir Piercie Shafton, the Sub- 
Prior looked on Edw'ard with astonishment. 

“ Didst thou not say, even now,” he said, “ that there w'as no 
vestige of a grave in that spot ?” 

“No more vestige of the earth having been removed than if 
the turf had grown there since the days of Adam,” replied 
Edward Glendinning. “ It is true,” he added, “ that the adjacent 
grass W'as trampled and bloody.” 

“ These are delusions of the Enemy,” said the Sub-Prior, 
crossing himself. — “ Christian men may no longer doubt of it.” 

“ But an it be so,” said Warden, “ Christian men might better 
guard themselves by the sword of prayer than by the idle form 
of a cabalistical spell.” 

“ The badge of our salvation,” said the Sub-Prior, “ cannot be 
so termed — the sign of the cross disarmeth all evil spirits.” 

“ Ay,” answered Henry Warden, apt and armed for contro- 
versy, “ but it should be borne in the heart, not scored with the 
fingers in the air. That very impassive air, through which your 
hand passes, shall as soon bear the imprint of your action, as the 
external action shall avail the fond bigot who substitutes vain 
motions of the body, idle genuflections, and signs of the cross, for 
the living and heart-born duties of faith and good works.” 

“ I pity thee,” said tlie Sub-Prior, as actively ready for 
polemics as himself, — “I pity thee, Henry, and reply not to 
thee. Thou mayst as well winnow forth and measure the ocean 
with a sieve, as mete out the pow'er of holy words, deeds, and 
signs, by the erring gauge of thine own reason.” 

“ Not by mine own I’oason would I mete them,” said Warden ; 
“ but by His holy Word, that unfading and unerring lamp of our 
paths, compared to which human reason is but as a glimmering 
and fading taper, and your boasted tradition only a misleading 
wild-fire. Shew me your Scripture wai’rant for ascribing virtue 
to such vain signs and motions 1” 

“ I offered thee a fair field of debate,” said the Sub -Prior, 
“ which thou didst refuse. I will not at present resume the con- 
troversy.” 

“ Were these my last accents,” said the reformer, “and were 
they uttered at the stake, half-choked witli smoke, and as the 


298 


Tllii MONASTEHY, 


fagots kindled into a blaze around me, with that last utterance 
[ would testify against the superstitious devices of Rome.” 

The Sub-Prior suppressed with pain the controversial answer 
which arose to his lips, and, turning to Edward Glendinning, he 
said, “ there could be now no doubt that his mother ought pre- 
sently to be informed that her son lived.” 

“ I told you that two hours since,” said Christie of the 
Clinthill, ‘^an you would have believed me. But it seems 
you are more willing to take the word of an old gray sorner, 
whose life has been spent in pattering heresy, than mine, 
though I never rode a foray in my life without duly saying my 
paternoster.” 

“ Go then,” said Father Eustace to Edward ; “ let thy sorrowing 
mother know that her son is restored to her from tlie grave, like 
the child of the widow of Zarephath ; at the intercession,” lie 
added, looking at Henry Warden, “ of the blessed Saint whom I 
invoked in his behalf.” 

“ Deceived thyself,” said Warden, instantly, ‘‘ thou art a 
deceiver of others. It was no dead man, no creature of clay, 
whom the blessed Tishbite invoked, when, stung by the reproacli 
of the Shunamite woman, he prayed that her son’s soul might 
come into him again.” 

“ It was by his intercession, however,” repeated the Sub-Prior ; 
“ for what says the Vulgate ? Thus is it written : ‘ Et exaudit it 
Dominus tocem Helie ; et retersa est anima pueri intra eum, et 
revixit — and thinkest thou the intercession of a glorified saint 
is more feeble than when he walks on earth, shrouded in a 
tabernacle of clay, and seeing but with the eye of flesh ?” 

During this controversy Edward Glendinning appeared restless 
and impatient, agitated by some strong internal feeling, but 
whether of joy, grief, or expectation, his countenance did not 
expressly declare. He took now the unusual freedom to break in 
upon the discourse of the Sub-Prior, who, notwithstanding his 
resolution to the contrary, was obviously kindling in the spirit of 
controversy, which Edward diverted by conjuring his reverence 
to allow him to speak a few words with him in private. 

“ Remove the prisoner,” said the Sub-Prior to Christie ; “ look 
to him carefully that he escape not; but for thy life do liim uo 
injury.” 

His commands being obeyed, Edward and the monk were lelt 
alone, when the Sub-Prior thus addressed him. 

“ What hath come over thee, Edward, that thy eye kindles so 
wildly, and thy cheek is thus changing from scarlet to pale 1 Why 
didst thou break in so hastily and unadvisedly upon the argument 
with which I was prostrating yonder heretic 1 And wherefore 
dost thou not tell thy mother that her son is restored to her by 
the intercession, as Holy Church well warrants us to believe, of 
blessed Saint Benedict, the patron of our Order ? For if ever my 
prayers were put forth to him with zeal, it hath been in behalf of 


THE MONASTERY. 


299 

this house, and thine eyes have seen the result — go tell it to thy 
mother.” 

“ I must tell her then,” said Edward, “ that if she has regained 
one son, another is lost to her.” 

“ What meanest thou, Edward ? what language is this ?” said 
tlie Sub-Prior. 

“ Father,” said the youth, kneeling down to him, "my sin and 
my shame sliall be told thee, and thou shalt witness my penance 
with thine own eyes.” 

" I comprehend thee not,” said the Sub-Prior. “ What canst 
thou have done to deserve such self-accusation ? — Hast thou too 
listened,” he added, knitting his brows, " to the demon of heresy, 
ever most effectual tempter of those, who, like yonder unhappy 
man, are distinguished by their love of knowledge ?” 

" I am guiltless in that matter,” answered Glendinning, " nor 
have presumed to think otherwise than thou, my kind father, hast 
taught me, and than the church allows.” 

“And what is it then, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, kindly, 
“ which thus afflicts thy conscience 1 speak it to me, that I may 
answer thee in tlie words of comfort ; for the church’s mercy is 
great to those obedient children who doubt not her power.” 

“My confession will require her mercy,” replied Edward. 
“My brother Halbert — so kind, so brave, so gentle, who spoke 
not, thought not, acted not, but in love to me, whose hand had 
aided me in every difficulty, whose eye watched over me like the 
eagle’s over her nestlings, when they prove their first flight from 
the eyry — this brother, so kind, so gently affectionate — I heard 
of his sudden, his bloody, his violent death, and I rejoiced — I 
heard of his unexpected restoration, and I sorrowed !” 

“Edward,” said the father, “thou art beside thyself — what 
could urge thee to such odious ingratitude ? — In your hurry of 
spirits you have mistaken the confused tenor of your feelings — 
Go, my son, pray and compose thy mind — we will speak of this 
another time.” 

“ No, father, no,” said Edward, vehemently, “ now, or never ! 
— I w'ill find the means to tame this rebellious heart of mine, or 
I will tear it out of my bosom — Mistake its passions? — No, 
father, grief can ill be mistaken for joy — All wept, all shrieked 
around me — my mother — the menials — she too, the cause of 
my crime — all wept — and I — I could hardly disguise my 
brutal and insane joy under the appearance of revenge — Bi'other, 
I said, I cannot give thee tears, but I will give thee blood — Yes, 
Father, as I counted hour after hour, while I kept watch upon 
the English prisoner, and said, I am an hour nearer to hope and 
to happiness ” 

“ I understand thee not, Edward,” said the monk, “ nor can I 
conceive in what way thy brother’s supposed murder should have 
affected thee with such unnatural joy — Surely the sordid desire 
to succeed him in his small possessions ” 


300 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Perish the paltry trasli !” said Edward, with the same emo- 
tion. “ No, father, it was rivah’y — it was jealous rage — it Avas 
the love of Mary Avenel, that rendered me the unnatui’al wretch 
I confess myself !” 

“ Of Mary Avenel !” said the priest — of a lady so high 
above either of you in name and in rank ? How dared Hal- 
bert — how dared you, to presume to lift your eye to her but 
in honour and respect, as a superior of another degree from 
yours 

“ When did love wait for the sanction of heraldry ?” replied 
Edward ; “ and in what but a line of dead ancestors was Mary, 
our mother’s guest and foster-child, different from us, with whom 
she was brought up ? — Enough, we loved — we both loved her ! 
But the passion of Halbert was requited. He knew it not, he 
saw it not — but I was sharper-eyed. I saw that even when I 
was more approved. Halbert was more beloved. With me she 
would sit for hours at our common task with the cold simplicity 
and indifference of a sister, but with Halbert she trusted not hei*- 
self. She changed colour, she was fluttered when he approached 
her ; and when he left her, she was sad, pensive, and solitary. 1 
bore all this — I saw my rival’s advancing progress in her affec- 
tions — I bore it, father, and yet I hated him not — I could not 
hate him I” 

“ And well for thee that thou didst not,” said the hither ; “ wild 
and headstrong as thou art, wouldst thou hate thy brother for 
partaking in thine own folly 

“ Father,” replied Edward, “ the world esteems thee wise, and 
holds thy knowledge of mankind high ; but thy question shews 
that thou hast never loved. It was by an effort that I saved 
myself from hating my kind and affectionate brother, who, all 
unsuspicious of my rivalry, was perpetually loading me with 
kindness. Nay, there were moods of my mind, in which I could 
return that kindness for a time with energetic enthusiasm. Never 
did I feel this so strongly as on the night which parted us. But 
I could not help rejoicing when he was swept from my path — 
could not help sorrowing when he was again restored to be a 
stumbling-block in my paths.” 

“ May God be gracious to thee, my son !” said the monk ; 
this is an awful state of mind. Even in such evil mood did the 
first murderer rise up against his brother, because Abel’s was the 
more acceptable sacrifice.” 

“ I will wrestle with the demon which has haunted me, father,” 
replied the youth, firmly — “ I will wrestle with him, and I will 
subdue him. But first I must remove from the scenes which are 
to follow here. I cannot endure that I should see Mary Avenel’s 
eyes again flash with joy at the restoration of her lover. It were 
a sight to make indeed a second Cain of me ! My fierce, turbid, 
and transitory joy discharged itself in a thirst to commit homi- 
cide, and how can I estimate the frenzy of my despair 1” 


THE MONASTERY. .‘JOl 

‘‘ Madman 1” said the Sub-Prior, at what dreadful crime docs 
tliy fury drive 

“ My lot is determined, father,” said Edward, in a resolute 
tone ; “ I will embrace the spiritual state which you have so oft 
recommended. It is my pui’pose to return with you to Saint 
Mary’s, and, with the permission of the Holy Virgin and of Saint 
Honedict, to offer my profession to the Abbot.” 

Not now, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “ not in this distem* 
perature of mind. The wise and good accept not gifts which are 
made in heat of blood, and which may be after repented of ; and 
shall w’e make our offerings to wisdom and to goodness itself with 
less of solemn resolution and deep devotion of mind, than is neces- 
sary to make them acceptable to our own frail companions in this 
valley of darkness 1 This I say to thee, my son, not as meaning 
to deter thee from the good path thou art now inclined to prefer, 
but that thou mayst make thy vocation and thine election sure.” 

There are actions, father,” returned Edward, “ which brook 
no delay, and this is one. It must be done this very now ; or it 
may never be done. Let me go with you ; let me not behold the 
return of Halbert into this house. Shame, and the sense of the 
injustice I have already done him, will join with these dreadful 
passions which urge me to do him yet farther wrong. Let me 
then go with you.” 

“ With me, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “ thou shalt surely 
go ; but our rule, as well as reason and good order, require that 
you should dwell a space with us as a probationer, or novice, 
before taking upon thee those final vows, which, sequestering thee 
for ever from the world, dedicate thee to the service of Heaven.” 

“ And when shall we set forth, father ?” said the youth, as 
eagerly as if the journey which he was now undertaking led to 
the pleasures of a summer holiday. 

“ Even now, if thou wilt,” said the Sub-Prior, yielding to his 
impetuosity — “go, then, and command them to prepare for our 
departure. — Yet stay,” he said, as Edward, with all the awakened 
enthusiasm of his character, hastened from his presence, “ come 
hither, my son, and kneel down.” 

Edward obeyed, and kneeled down before him. Notwithstand- 
ing his slight figure and thin features, the Sub-Prior could, from 
the energy of liis tone, and the earnestness of his devotional 
manner, impress his pupils and his penitents with no ordinary 
feelings of personal reverence. His heart always was, as well as 
seemed to be, in the duty which he was immediately performing ; 
and the spiritual guide who thus shews a deep conviction of the 
importance of his office, seldom fails to impress a similar feeling 
upon his hearers. Upon such occasions as the present, his puny 
body seemed to assume more majestic stature — his spare and 
emaciated countenance bore a bolder, loftier, and more command- 
ing port — his voice, always beautiful, trembled as labouring under 
the immediate impulse of the Divinity — and his whole demeanour 


THE MONASTERY. 


302 

seemed to bespeak, not the mere ordinary man, but tlie organ of 
tiie Church in which she had vested her high power for delivering 
sinners from their load of iniquity. 

‘‘ Hast thou, my fair son,” said he, “ faithfully recounted the 
circumstances which have thus suddenly determined thee to a 
religious life ?” 

“ The sins 1 have confessed, my father,” answered Edward, 
“ but I have not yet told of a strange appearance, which, acting 
on iny mind, hath, I think, aided to determine my resolution.” 

“ Tell it, then, now,” returned the Sub-Prior ; " it is thy duty 
to leave me uninstructed in nought, so that thereby I may under- 
stand the temptation that besets thee.” 

“ I tell it with unwillingness,” said Edward ; “ for although, 
God wot, I speak but the mere truth, yet even while my tongue 
speaks it as truth, my own ears receive it as fable.” 

“Yet say tlie whole,” said Father Eustace; “neither fear 
rebuke from me, seeing I may know reasons for receiving as true 
that which others might regard as fabulous.” 

“ Know, then, father,” replied Edward, “ that betwixt hope and 
despair — and, heavens ! what a hope ! — the hope to find the 
corpse mangled and crushed hastily in amongst the bloody clay 
which the foot of the scornful victor had trod down upon my 
good, my gentle, my courageous brother, — I sped to the glen 
called Corri-nan-shian ; but, as your reverence has been already 
informed, neither the grave, which my unhallowed wishes had in 
spite of my better self longed to see, nor any appearance of the 
earth having been opened, was visible in the solitary spot where 
Martin had, at morning yesterday, seen the fatal hillock. You 
know our dalesmen, father. The place hath an evil name, and 
this deception of the sight inclined them to leave it. My com- 
panions became affrighted, and hastened down the glen as men 
caught in trespass. My hopes were too much blighted, my mind 
too much agitated, to fear either the living or the dead. I de- 
scended the glen more slowly than they, often looking back, and 
not ill pleased with the poltroonery of my companions, which left 
me to my own perplexed and moody humour, and induced them 
to hasten into the broader dale. They were already out of sight, 
and lost amongst the windings of the glen, when, looking back, I 
saw a female form standing beside the fountain ” 

“ How, my fair son 1” said the Sub-Prior, “ bewure you jest 
not with your present situation !” 

“ I jest not, father,” answered the youth ; “ it may be 1 shall 
never jest again — surely not for many a day. I saw, I say, the 
form of a female clad in white, such as the Spirit which haunts 
the house of Avenel is supposed to be. Believe me, my father, 
for, by heaven and earth, I say nought but what I saw with 
these eyes !” 

“ T believe thee, my son,” said tlie mpnk “ proceed in tliy 
strange story.” 


THE MONASTERY. 303 

“ The apparition,” said Edward Glendinning, “ sung, and thus 
run her lay ; for, strange as it may seem to you, her words abide 
by my remembrance as if they had been sung to me from infancy 
upward : 

‘ Thou who seek’st my fountain lone, 

With thoughts and hopes thou darest not own ; 

Whose heart within leap’d wildly glad 
When most his brow seem’d dark and sad ; 

Hie thee back, thou find’st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; 

The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 

Go thou, and join the Living Dead ! 

' The Living Dead, whose sober brow 
Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now. 

Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured . 

Where, under sad and solemn show. 

Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. 

Seek the convent’s vaulted room. 

Prayer and vigil be thy doom ; 

Doft'the green, and don the gray. 

To the cloister hence away !’ ” 

" ’Tis a wild lay,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘^and chanted, I fear me, 
with no good end. But we have power to turn the machinations 
of Satan to his shame. Edward, thou shalt go with me as thou 
desirest ; thou shalt prove the life for which I have long thought 
tliee best fitted — thou shalt aid, my son, this trembling hand of 
mine to sustain the Holy Ai’k, which bold unhallowed men press 
rashly forward to touch and to profane. — Wilt thou not first see 
thy mother ?” 

I will see no one,” said Edward, hastily ; “ I will risk nothing 
that may shake the pui’pose of my heart. From Saint Mary’s 
they shall learn my destination — all of them shall learn it. My 
mother — Mary Avenel — my restored and happy brother — 
they shall all know that Edward lives no longer to the world to 
be a clog on their happiness. Mary shall no longer need to 
constrain her looks and expressions to coldness because I am 
nigh. She shall no longer ” 

“ My son,” said the Sub-Prior, interrupting him, “ it is not by 
looldng back on the vanities and vexations of this world, that we 
fit ourselves for the discharge of duties which are not of it. Go, 
get our horses ready, and, as we descend the glen together, I 
will teach thee the truths through which the fathers and wise men 
of old had that precious alchemy, wliich can convert suftering 
into happiness.” 


304 


THE MONASTEKT. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Now, on my faith, this grear is all entangled, 

Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, 

Hragg’d by the frolic kitten through the cabin. 

While the good dame sits nodding o’er the fire ! 

.Masters, attend ; ’twill crave some skill to clear it. 

Old Plaij. 

Edward, with the speed of one who doubts the steadiness of 
his own resolution, hastened to prepare the horses for their 
departure, and at the same time thanked and dismissed the neigh- 
bours who had come to his assistance, and who were not a little 
surprised both at the suddenness of his proposed departure, and 
at the turn affairs had taken. 

“ Here ’s cold hospitality,” quoth Dan of the Howlet-hirst to 
his comrades ; “ I ti’ow the Glendinuings may die and come alive 
right oft, ere I put foot in stirrup again for the matter.” 

Martin soothed them by placing food and liquor before them. 
They ate sullenly, however, and departed in bad humour. 

The joyful news that Halbert Glendinning lived, was quickly 
communicated through the sorrowing family. The mother ’wept 
and thanked Heaven alternately ; until her habits of domestic 
economy awakening as her feelings became calmer, she observed, 
“ It would be an unco task to mend the yetts, and what were they 
to do while they were broken in that fashion \ At open doors 
dogs come in.” 

Tibb remarked, “ She aye thought Halbert was ower gleg at 
his weapon to be killed sae easily by ony Sir Piercie of them a’. 
They might say of these Southrons as they liked ; but they had 
not the pith and wind of a canny Scot, when it came to close 
grips.” 

On Mary Avenel the impression was inconceivably deeper. 
She had but newly learned to pray, and it seemed to her that her 
prayers had been instantly answered — that the compassion of 
Heaven, which she had learned to implore in the words of Scrip- 
ture, had descended upon her after a manner almost miraculous, 
and recalled the dead from the grave at the sound of her lamenta- 
tions. There was a dangerous degree of enthusiasm in this strain 
of feeling, but it originated in the purest devotion. 

A silken and embroidered muffler, one of the few articles of 
more costly attire which she possessed, was devoted to the pur- 
pose of wrapping up and concealing the sacred volume, which 
henceforth she was to regard as her chiefest treasure, lamenting 
only that, for want of a fitting interpreter, much must remain to 
her a book closed and a fountain sealed. She was unaware of the 
yet greater danger she incurred, of putting an imperfect or even 
false sense upon some of the doctrines whi/jh appeared most 


THE MONASTERY. 


305 


comprehensible. But Heaven had provided against both these 
hazards. 

'While Edward was preparing the horses, Christie of the Clint- 
hill again solicited his orders respecting the reformed preacher, 
lleni’y Warden, and again the worthy monk laboured to reconcile 
in his own mind the compassion and esteem which, almost in spite 
of him, he could not help feeling for his former companion, with 
the duty which he owed to the church. The unexpected resolu- 
tion of Edward had removed, he thought, the chief objection to 
his being left at Glendearg. 

“ If 1 carry this Wellwood, or Warden, to the Monastery,” he 
thought, “he must die — die in his heresy — perish body and 
soul : And though such a measure was once thought advisable, 
to strike terror into the heretics, yet such is now their daily 
increasing strength, that it may rather rouse them to fury and to 
revenge. True, he refuses to pledge himself to abstain from sow- 
ing his tares among the wheat ; but the ground here is too barren 
to receive them. I fear not his making impression on these poor 
women, the vassals of the church, and bred up in due obedience 
to her behests. The keen, searching, inquiring, and bold dispo- 
sition of Edward, might have afforded fuel to the fire ; but that is 
removed, and there is nothing left which the flame may catch to. 
— Thus shall he have no power to spread his evil doctrines 
abroad, and yet his life shall be preserved, and it may be his soul 
rescued as a prey from the fowler’s net. I will myself contend 
with him in argument ; for when we studied in common, I yielded 
not to him, and surely the cause for which I struggle will support 
me, were I yet more weak than I deem myself. Were this man 
reclaimed from his eiTors, an hundred-fold more advantage 
would arise to the church from his spiritual regeneration, than 
from his temporal death.” 

Having finished these meditations, in which there Avas at once 
goodness of disposition and narrowness of principle, a consider- 
able portion of self-opinion, and no small degree of self-delusion, 
the Sub-Prior commanded the prisoner to be brought into his 
presence. 

“ Henry,” he said, “ whatever a rigid sense of duty may 
demand of me, ancient friendship and Christian compassion 
forbid me to lead thee to assured death. Thou wert wont to bo 
generous, though stern and stubborn in thy resolves ; let not thy 
sense of Avhat thine own thoughts term duty, draw thee farther 
than mine have done. Remember, that every sheep whom thou 
€halt here lead astray from the fold, will be demanded in time 
and through eternity of him who hath left thee the liberty of 
doing such evil. I ask no engagement of thee, save that thou 
remain a prisoner on thy word at this towei”, and Avilt appear 
when summoned.” 

“ 'J’hou hast found an ir.A'ention to bind my hands,” replied the 
preacher, “ more sure than would Iiua’c been tlie heaviest shackk-s 

N. IT 


306 Tl^E MONASTERY. 

m the prison of thy convent. I will not rashly do what may en- 
danger thee with thy unhappy superiors, and 1 wil he the more 
cautious, because, if we had farther opportunity of conference, I 
trust thine own soul may yet be rescued as a brand from the 
burning, and that, casting from thee the livery of Anti-Christ, tliat 
trader in human sins and human souls, I may yet assist thee to 
lay hold on the Rock of Ages.” 

*The Sub-Prior heard the sentiment, so similar to that which 
had occurred to himself, with the same kindly feelings with which 
the gariie-cock hears and replies to the challenge of his rival. 

« I bless God and Our Lady,” said he, drawing himself up, 
“ that my faith is already anchored on that Rock on which Saint 
Peter founded his church.” 

" It is a perversion of the text,” said the eager Henry War- 
den, “ grounded on a vain play upon words — a most idle 
paronomasia.” 

The controversy would have been rekindled, and in all proba- 
bility — for what can insure the good temper and moderation of 
polemics ? — might have ended in the preacher’s being transported 
a captive to the Monastery, had not Christie of the Ciinthill 
observed that it was growing late, and that he having to descend 
the glen, which had no good reputation, cared not greatly for 
travelling there after sunset. The Sub-Prior, therefore, stifled 
his desire of argument, and again telling the preacher, that he 
trusted to his gratitude and generosity, he bade him farewell. 

“Be assured, mine old friend,” replied Warden, “that no 
willing act of mine shall be to thy prejudice. But if my Master 
shall place work before me, I must obey God rather than 
man.” 

These two men, both excellent from natural disposition and 
acquired knowledge, had more points of similarity than they 
themseh’^es would have admitted. In truth, the chief distinction 
betwixt them was, that the Catholic, defending a religion which 
afforded little interest to the feelings, had, in his devotion to the 
cause he espoused, more of the head than of the heart, and was 
politic, cautious, and artful ; while the Protestant, acting under 
the strong impulse of more lately adopted conviction, and feeling, 
as he justly might, a more animated confidence in his cause, was 
enthusiastic, eager, and precipitate in his desire to advance it. 
The priest would have been contented to defend, the preacher 
.'ispired to conquer ; and, of course, the impulse by which the 
latter was governed, was more active and more decisive. Tliey 
could not part from each other without a second pressure of hands, 
and each looked in the face of his old companion, as he bade liim 
adieu, with a countenance strongly expressive of sorrow, affection, 
and pity. 

Father Eustace then explained briefly to Dame Glendinning, 
that this person was to be her guest for some days, forbidding 
her and her wliole household, under hio-h sniritual censures, to 


THE MONASTERY. 307 

hold any conversation with him on religious subjects, but com- 
manding her to attend to his wants in all other particulars. 

“ May Our Lady forgive me, reverend father,” said Dame Glen- 
dinning, somewhat dismayed at this intelligence, “but I must 
needs say, that ower mony guests have been the ruin of raony a 
house, and I trow they will bring down Glendearg. First came 
the Lady of Avenel — (her soul be at rest — she meant nae ill) 

— but she brought with her as mony bogles and fairies, as hae 
kept the house in care ever since, sae that we have been living as 
it were in a dream. And then came that English knight, if it 
please you, and if he hasna killed my son outright, he has chased 
him aff‘ the gate, and it may be lang eneugh ere I see him again 

— forby the damage done to outer door and inner door. And 
now your reverence has given me the charge of a heretic, who, 
it is like, may bring the OTeat horned devil himself down upon 
us all ; and they say tharit is neither door nor window will serve 
him, but he will take away the side of the auld tower along with 
him. Nevertheless, reverend father, your pleasure is doubtless to 
be done to our power.” 

“Go to, woman,” said the Sub-Prior; “send for workmen 
from the clachan, and let them charge the expense of their repairs 
to the Community, and I will give the treasurer warrant to allow 
them. Moreover, in settling the rental mails, and feu-duties, 
thou shalt have allowance for the trouble and charges to which 
thou art now put, and I will cause strict search to be made after 
thy son.” 

The dame curtsied deep and low at each favourable expression; 
and when the Sub-Prior had done speaking, she added her farther 
hope that the Sub-Prior would hold some communing with her 
gossip the Miller, concerning the fate of his daughter, and expound 
to him that the chance had by no means happened through any 
negligence on her part, 

“ I sair doubt me, father,” she said, “Jwhether Mysie finds her 
way back to the Mill in a hurry ; but it was all her father’s own 
fault that let her run lamping about the counti’y, riding on bare- 
backed naigs, and never settling to do a turn of wark within 
doors, imless it were to dress dainties at dinner-time for his ain 
kyte.” 

“ You remind me, dame, of another matter of urgency,” said 
Father Eustace ; “ and, God knows, too many of them press on 
me at this moment. This English knight must be sought out, 
and explanation given to him of these most strange chances. The 
giddy girl must also be recovered. If slie hath suffered in reputa- 
tion by this unhappy mistake, I will not hold myself innocent of 
the disgrace. Yet how to find them out I know not.” 

“ So please you,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “ I am willing 
to take the chase, and bring them back by fair means or foul; tor 
though you have always looked as black as night at me, whenever 
we have forgathered, yet I have not forgotten that had it not 


THE MONASTERY. 


30S 

been for you, my neck would have kend the weight of my four 
quarters. If any man can track the tread of them, I will say in 
the face of both Merse and Teviotdale, and take the Forest to 
boot, I am that man. But first I have matters to treat of on my 
master’s score, if you will permit me to ride down the glen with 
you.” 

“ Nay, but, my friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “ thou shouldst 
remember I have but slender cause to trust thee for a companion 
through a place so solitary.” 

“ Tush ! tush !” said the Jackman, fear me not ; I had the 
worst too surely to begin that sport again. Besides, have I not 
said a dozen of times, I owe you a life ? and when I owe a man 
either a good turn or a bad, I never fail to pay it sooner or later. 
Moreover, beshrew mo if I care to go alone down the glen, or 
even with my troopers, who are, every loon of them, as mucli 
devil’s bairns as myself ; whereas, if your reverence, since that is 
the word, take beads and psalter, and I come along with jack and 
spear, yon will make the devils take the air, and I will make all 
human enemies take the earth.” 

Edward here entered, and told his reverence that his horse 
was prepared. At this instant his eye caught his mother’s, and 
the resolution which he had so strongly foi*med was staggered 
when he recollected the necessity of bidding her farewell. The 
Sub-Prior saw his embarrassment, and came to his relief. 

“ Dame,” said he, “ I forgot to mention that your son Edward 
goes with me to Saint Mary’s, and will not return for two or three 
days.” 

You ’ll be wishing to help him to recover his brother ? May 
the saints reward your kindness 1” 

The Sub-Prior returned the benediction which, in this instance, 
he had not very well deserved, and he and Edward set forth on 
their route. They were presently followed by Christie, who came 
up with his followers at such a speedy pace, as intimated suffi- 
ciently that his wish to obtain spiritual convoy through the glen, 
was extremely sincere. He had, however, other matters to stimu- 
late his speed, for he was desirous to communicate to the Sub- 
Prior a message from his master Julian, connected with the 
delivery of the prisoner Warden ; and having requested the Sub- 
Prior to ride with him a few yards before Edward, and the ti’oopers 
of his own party, he thus addressed him, sometimes interrupting 
his discourse in a manner testifying that his fear of supernatural 
beings was not altogether lulled to I’est by his confidence in the 
sanctity of his fellow-traveller. 

“ My mastei’,” said the rider, “ deemed he had sent you an 
acceptable gift in that old heretic preacher ; but it seems, from 
the slight care you have taken of him, that you make small account 
of the boon.” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “ do not thus judge of it. The 
Community must account highly of the service, and will reward 


THE ]\10XASTERV. 


309 

it to thy master in gooflly fashion. But this man and I are old 
friends, and I trust to bring him back from the paths of perdi- 
tion.” 

“ Nay,” said the moss-trooper, “ when I saw you shake hands 
at the beginning, I counted that you would fight it all out in love 
and honour, and that there would be no extreme dealings betwixt 
ye — however it is all one to my master — Saint Mary! what call 
you yon. Sir Monk ?” 

“ The branch of a willow streaming across the path betwixt us 
and the sky.” 

“ Beshrew me,” said Christie, “ if it looked not like a man’s 
hand holding a sword. — But touching my master, he, like a pru- 
dent man, hath kept himself aloof in these broken times, until he 
could see Avith precision Avhat footing he was to stand upon. 
Right tempting offers he hath had from the Lords of Congregation, 
whom you call heretics ; and at one time he was minded, to be 
plain with you, to have taken their way — for he was assured that 
the Lord James * was coming this road at the head of a round 
body of cavalry. And accordingly Lord James did so far reckon 
upon him, that he sent this man Warden, or whatsoever be his 
name, to my master’s protection, as an assured friend ; and, more- 
over, with tidings that he himself was marching hitherward at the 
head of a strong body of horse.” 

Now, Our Lady forefend !” said the Sub-Prior. 

“ Amen I” answered Christie, in some trepidation, “ did your 
reverence see aught ?” 

“ Nothing Avhatever,” replied the monk ; ‘‘it was thy tale which 
wrested from me that exclamation.” 

“ And it was some cause,” replied he of the Clinthill, “ for it 
Lord James should come hither’, your Halidome would smoke for 
it. But be of good cheer — that expedition is ended befoi’e it 
was begun. The Baron of Avenel had sure news that Lord 
James has been fain to march westward v/ith his merrymen, to 
protect Lord Semple against Cassilis and the Kennedies. By my 
faith, it will cost him a brush ; for wot ye what they say of that 
name, — 

‘ ’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, 

Portpatrick and the cruives of Cree, 

Xo man need think for to bide there. 

Unless he court Saint Kennedie.’ ” 

“ Then,” said the Sub-Prior, “ the Lord James’s purpose of 
coining southwards being broken, cost this person, Henry Warden, 
a cold reception at Avenel Castle.” 

“ It would not have been altogether so rough a one,” said the 
moss-trooper ; “ for my master was in heavy thought what to do 
in these unsettled times, and would scarce have hazarded misusing 
a man sent to him by so terrible a leader as the Lord James. 


* Lord James Stewart, afterwards the Regent Murray. 


THE MONASTERY. 


310 

But, to speak the truth, some busy devil tempted the old man to 
meddle ^vith my master’s Christian liberty of hand-fasting with 
Catherine of Newport. So that broke the wand of peace between 
them, and now ye may have my master, and all the force he can 
make, at your devotion, for Lord James never forgave wrong 
done to him ; and if he come by the upper hand, he will have 
Julian’s head if there were never another of the name, as it is 
like there is not, excepting the bit slip of a lassie yonder. And 
now I have told you more of my master’s affairs than he would 
thank me for ; but you have done me a frank turn once, and 1 
may need one at your hands again.” 

“ Thy frankness,” said the Sub-Prior, shall surely advantage 
thee ; for much it concerns the church in these broken times to 
know the purposes and motives of those around us. But what is 
it that thy master expects from us in reward of good service ; for 
I esteem him one of those who are not willing to work without 
their hire ?” 

“ Nay, that I can tell you flatly; for Lord James had promised 
him, in case he would be of his faction in these parts, an easy tack 
of the teind-sheaves of his own Barony of Avenel, together with 
the lands of Cranberry -moor, which lie intersected with his own. 
And he will look for no less at your hand.” 

“ But there is old Gilbert of Cranberry-moor,” said the Sub- 
Prior, ‘^what are we to make of him ? The heretic Lord James 
may take on him to dispone upon the goods and lands of the Hali- 
dome at his pleasure, because, doubtless, but for the protection of 
God, and the baronage which yet remain faithful to their creed, 
he may despoil us of them by force ; but while they are the pro- 
perty of the community, we may not take steadings from ancient 
and faithful vassals, to gratify the covetousness of those who serve 
God only from the lucre of gain.” 

“ By the mass,” said Christie, “ it is well talking. Sir Priest ; 
but w^hen ye consider that Gilbert has but tw^o half-starved 
cow'ardly peasants to follow him, and only an auld jaded aver to 
ride upon, fitter for the plough than for manly service ; and that 
the Baron of Avenel never rides with few^er than ten jackmen at 
his back, and oftener with fifty, bodin in all that effeirs to w-ar as 
if they were to do battle for a kingdom, and mounted on nags that 
nicker at the clash of a sword as if it were the clank of the lid of 
a corn-chest — I say, when ye have computed all this, you may 
guess which course will best serve your Monastery.” 

‘‘ Friend,” said the monk, I would willingly purchase thy 
master’s assistance on his own terms, since times leave us no 
better means of defence against the sacrilegious spoliation of 
heresy ; but to take from a poor man his patrimony ” 

“ For that matter,” said the rider, “his seat would scarce be a 
soft one, if my master thought that Gilbert’s interest stood 
betwixt him and what he wishes. The Halidome has land enough, 
and Gilbert may be quartered elsew^here.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


311 

"We will consider the possibility of so disposing the matter,” 
said the monk, " and will expect in consequence your master’s 
most active assistance, with all the followers he can make, to join 
in the defence of the Halidome, against any force by which it may 
be threatened.” 

" A man’s hand and a mailed glove on that,” * said the jackman. 
“ They call us marauders, thieves, and what not ; but the side we 
take we hold by. — And I will be blithe when my Baron comes 
to a point which side he will take, for the castle is a kind of hell, 
(Our Lady forgive me for naming such a word in this place!) 
while he is in his mood, studying how he may best advantage 
himself. And now. Heaven be praised, we are in the open 
valley, and I may swear a round oath, should aught happen to 
provoke it.” 

" My friend,” said the Sub-Prior, " thou hast little merit in 
abstaining from oaths or blasphemy, if it be only out of fear of 
evil spirits.” 

“ Nay, I am not quite a church vassal yet,” said the jackman, 
" and if you link the curb too tight on a young horse, I promise 
you he will rear — Why, it is much for me to forbear old customs 
on any account whatever.” 

The night being fine, they forded tjie river at the spot where 
the Sacristan met with his unhappy encounter with the spirit. As 
soon as they arrived at the gate of the Monastery, the porter in 
waiting eagerly exclaimedj " Reverend father, the Lord Abbot is 
most anxious for your presence.” 

" Let these strangers be carried to the great hall,” said the 
Sub-Prior, " and be treated with the best by the cellarer ; remind- 
ing them, however, of that modesty and decency of conduct which 
becometh guests in a house like this.” 

" But the Lord Abbot (iemands you instantly, my venerable 
brother,” said Father Philip, arriving in great haste. " I have 
not seen him more discouraged or desolate of counsel since the 
field of Pinkie-cleugh was stricken.” 

“ I come, my good brotlaer, I come,” said Father Eustace. " I 
pray thee, good brother, let this youth, Edward Glendinning, be 
conveyed to the Chamber of the Novices, and placed under their 
instructor. God hath touched his heart, and he proposeth laying 
aside the vanities of the world, to become a brother of our holy 
order ; which, if his good parts be matched with fitting docility 
and humility, he may one day live to adorn.” 

" My very venerable bi’other,” exclaimed old Father Nicholas, 
who came hobbling with a third summons to the Sub-Prior, " I 
pray thee to hasten to our worshipful Lord Abbot, The holy 
patroness be with us 1 never saw I Abbot of the House of Saint 
Mary’s in such consternation ; and yet I remember me well when 
Father lugeh’am had the news of Flodden-field.” 

* See Note L. Good Faith of the Borderer* 


312 


TJIE JilONASTEUY. 


“ I come, I come, venerable brother,” said Father Eustace — 
And having repeatedly ejaculated “ I come !” he at last went to 
ihe Abbot in good earnest. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

It is not texts will do it — Church artillery 
Are silenced soon by real ordnance, 

And canons are but vain opposed to cannon. 

Go, coin your crosier, melt your church plate down, 

. Bid the starved soldier banquet in your halls, 

And quaff your long-saved hogsheads — Tum them out 
Thus primed with your good cheer, to guard your wall. 

And they will venture for ’t 

OM Play. 

The Abbot received his counsellor with a tremulous eagerness 
of welcome, which announced to the Sub-Prior an extreme agita- 
tion of spirits, and the utmost need of good counsel. There was 
neither mazer-dish nor standing-cup upon the little table, at the 
elbow of his huge chair of state ; his beads alone lay there, and it 
seemed as if he had been telling them in his extremity of distress. 
Beside the beads was placed the mitre of the Abbot, of an antique 
form, and blazing with precious stones, and the rich and highly- 
embossed crosier rested against the same table. 

The Sacristan and old Father Nicholas had followed the Sub- 
Pidor into the Abbot’s apartment, perhaps with the hope of 
learning something of the important matter which seemed to be 
in hand. — They were not mistaken ; for, after having ushered in 
the Sub-Prior, and being themselves in the act of retiring, the 
Abbot made them a signal to remain. 

“ My brethren,” he said, “ it is well known to you with Avhat 
])ainful zeal we have overseen the weighty affairs of this house 
committed to our unworthy hand — your bread hath been given 
to you, and your water hath been sure — I have not wasted the 
revenues of the Convent on vain pleasures, as hunting or 
hawking, or in change of rich cope or alb, or in feasting idle 
bards and jesters, saving those who, according to old wont, were 
received in time of Christmas and Easter. Neither have I 
enriched either mine own relations nor strange women, at the 
expense of the Patrimony.” 

“There hath not been such a Lord Abbot,” said Father 
Nicholas, “ to my knowledge, since the days of Abbot Ingelram, 
who ” 

At that portentous word, which always preluded a long story, 
the Abbot broke in. 

“ May God have mercy on his soul ! — we talk not of him now. 
— What I would know of ye, my brethren, is, whether I have, iu 
your minda hiithfully discharged the duties of mine office 1” 


THE INlOXASTEllV. ' 313 

“ There has never been subject of complaint,” answered the 
Sub-Prior. 

Tlie Sacristan, more diffuse, enumerated the various acts of 
indulgence and kindness which the mild • government of Abbot 
Boniface had conferred on the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s — tiie 
indulgentice — the gratias — the hiberes — the weekly mess of 
boiled almonds — the enlai'ged accommodation of the refectory — 
the better arrangement of the cellarage — the improvement of 
the revenue of the Monastery — the diminution of the privations 
of the brethren. 

“ You might have added, my brother,” said the Abbot, listen- 
ing with melancholy acquiescence to the detail of his own merits, 
“ that I caused to be built that curious screen, which secureth the 
cloisters from the north-east wind. — But all these things avail 
nothing — As we read in holy Maccabee, CaptCi est civitas per 
voluntatem Dei. It hath cost me no little thought, no common 
toil, to keep these weighty matters in such order as you have 
seen them — there was both bai’n and binn to be kept full — 
Infirmary, dormitory, guest-hall, and refectory, to be looked to — 
processions to be made, confessions to be heard, strangers to be 
entertained, Tenioe. to be granted or refused ; and I warrant me, 
when every one of you was asleep in your cell, the Abbot hath 
lain awake for a full hour by the bell, thinking how these matters 
might be ordered seemly and suitably.” 

“ May we ask, reverend my lord,” said the Sub-Prior, “ what 
additional care has now been thrown upon you, since your dis- 
coui’se seems to point that way ?” 

“ Mai’ry, this it is,” said the Abbot. “ The talk is not now of 
hiberes, or of caritas, or of boiled almonds,* but of an English 
baud coming against us from Hexham, commanded by Sir John 
Foster ; nor is it of the screening us from the east wind, but how 
to escape Lord James Stewai’t, who cometh to lay waste and 
destroy with his heretic soldiers.” 

“ I thought that purpose liad been broken by the feud between 
Semple and the Kennedies,” said the Sub-Prior, hastily. 

“ They have accorded that matter at the expense of the church 
as usual,” said the Abbot ; “ the Earl of Cassilis is to have the 
teind-sheaves of his lands, which were given to the house of Cros- 
raguel, and he has stricken hands with Stewart, who is now called 
MuiTay. — Principes convenerunt nmim adtersus Dominum . — 
There are the letters.” 

The Sub-Prior took the letters, which had come by an express 
messenger from the Primate of Scotland, who still laboured to 
uphold the tottering fabric of the system under which he was at 
length buried, and, stepping towards the lamp, read them with an 
air of deep and settled attention — the Sacristan and Father 
Nicliolas looked as helplessly at each other, as the denizens of the 


♦ See Note 31. Indulgences of the Monks. 


THE MONASTERY. 


314 

poultry yard when the hawk soars over it. The Al)bot seemed 
bowed down with the extremity of sorrowful apprehension, but 
kept his eye timorously fixed on the Sub-Prior, as if strivmg to 
catch some comfort from the expression of his countenance. 
When at length he beheld that, after a second intent perusal of 
the letters, he remained still silent and full of thought, he asked 
him in an anxious tone, “ What is to be done 

“ Our duty must be done,” answered the Sub-Prior, “ and the 
rest is in the hands of God.” 

" Our duty — our duty ?” answered the Abbot, impatiently ; 
“ doubtless we are to do our duty ? but what is that duty ? or how 
will it serve us ? — Will bell, book, and candle, drive back the 
English heretics ? or will Mui-ray care for psalms and anti- 
phonars ? or can I fight for the Halidome, like Judas Maccabeus, 
against those profane Nicanors ? or send the Sacristan against 
this new Holofernes, to bring back his head in a basket ?” 

“ True, my Lord Abbot,” said the Sub-Prior, “ we cannot fight 
with carnal weapons, it is alike contrary to our habit and vow ; 
but we can die for our Convent and for our Order. Besides, we 
can arm those who will and can fight. The English are but few 
in number, trusting, as it would seem, that they will be joined 
by Murray, whose march has been interrupted. If Foster, 
with his Cumbeidand and Hexham bandits, ventures to march 
into Scotland, to pillage and despoil our House, we will levy 
our vassals, and, I trust, shall be found strong enough to give 
him battle.” 

“ In the blessed name of Our Lady,” said the Abbot, “ think 
you that I am Petrus Eremita, to go forth the leader of an host ?” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “ let some man skilled in war lead 
our people — there is Julian Avenel, an approved soldier.” 

“ But a scofier, a debauched person, and, in brief, a man of 
Belial,” quoth the Abbot. 

“ Still,” said the monk, “ we must use his ministry in that to 
which he has been brought up. We can guerdon him richly, and 
indeed I already know the price of his service. The English, it 
is expected, will presently set forth, hoping here to seize upon 
Piercie Shafton, whose refuge being taken with us, they make the 
pretext of this unheard-of inroad.” 

“ Is it even so ?” said the Abbot ; “ I never judged that his 
body of satin and his brain of feathers boded us much good.” 

“ Yet we must have his assistance, if possible,” said the Sub- 
Prior ; “ he may interest in our behalf the great Piercie, of whose 
friendship he boasts, and that good and faithful Lord may break 
Foster’s purpose. I will despatch the jackman after him with all 
speed. — Chiefly, however, I trust to the military spirit of the 
land, which will not suffer peace to be easily broken on the fron • 
tier. Credit me, my lord, it will bring to our side the hands of 
many, whose hearts may have gone astray after strange doc- 
trines. The great chiefs and barons will be ashamed to let tlie 


THE MONASTERY. 


316 

vassals of peaceful monks fight unaided against the old enemies of 
Scotland.” 

" It may be,” said the Abbot, " that Foster will wait for 
^Murray, whose purpose hitherward is but delayed for a short 
space.” 

By the rood, he will not,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ we know 
this Sir John Foster — a pestilent heretic, he will long to destroy 
the church — born a Borderer, he will tliirst to plunder her of 
her wealth — a Border- war den, he will be eager to ride in Scot- 
land. There are too many causes to urge him on. If he joins 
with Murray, he will have at best but an auxiliary’s share of the 
spoil — if he comes hither before him, he will reckon on the 
whole harvest of depredation as his own. Julian Avenel also 
has, as I have heard, some spite against Sir John Foster ; they 
will fight, when they meet, with double determination. — Sacristan, 
send for our bailiff — Where is the roll of fencible men Mable to 
do suit and service to the Halidome ? — Send off to the Baron of 
Meigallot; he can raise threescore horse and better — Say to him 
the Monastery will compound with him for the customs of his 
bridge, which have been in controversy, if he will shew himself a 
friend at such a point. — And now, my lord, let us compute our 
possible numbers, and those of the enemy, that human blood be 
not spilled in vain — Let us therefore calculate ” 

“ My brain is dizzied with the emergency,” said the poor 
Abbot — “ I am not, I think, more a coward than others, so far 
as my own person is concerned ; but speak to me of marching 
and collecting soldiers, and calculating forces, and you may as 
well tell of it to the youngest novice of a nunnery. But my re- 
solution is taken. — Brethren,” he said, rising up, and coming 
forward with that dignity which his comely person enabled him 
to assume, “hear for the last time the voice of your Abbot 
Boniface. I have done for you the best that I could ; in quieter 
times I had perhaps done better, for it was for quiet that I 
sought the cloister, which has been to me a place of turmoil, as 
much as if I had sate in the receipt of custom, or ridden forth as 
leader of an armed host. But now matters turn worse and 
worse, and I, as I grow old, am less able to struggle with them. 
Also, it becomes me not to hold a place, whereof the duties, 
through my default or misfortune, may be but imperfectly filled 
by me. Wherefore I have resolved to demit this mine high 
office, so that the order of these matters may presently devolve 
upon Father Eustatius here present, our well-beloved Sub-P^ior ; 
and I now rejoice that he hath not been provided according to 
his merits elsewhere, seeing that I well hope he will succeed to 
the mitre and staff which it is my present purpose to lay 
down.” 

“ In the name of Our Lady, do nothing hastily, my lord !” said 
Father Nicholas — “ I do remember that when the worthy Abbot 
Ingelram, being in his ninetieth year — for I warrant you he 


THE MOXASTEUY. 


3iG 

could reraeinbei’ wheu Benedict the Thirteenth was deposed — 
and being ill at ease and bed-rid, the brethren rounded in his ear 
that he were better resign his office. And what said he, being a 
pleasant man \ marry, that while he could crook his little finger 
he would keep hold of the crosier with it.” 

The Sacristan also strongly remonstrated against the resolution 
of his Superior, and set down the insufficiency he pleaded to the 
native modesty of his disposition. The Abbot listened in down- 
cast silence ; even flattery could not win his ear. 

Father Eustace took a nobler tone with his disconcerted and 
dejected Superior. “ My Lord Abbot,” he said, “ if I have been 
silent concerning the virtues with which you have governed this 
house, do not think that I am unaware of them. I know that no 
man ever brought to your high office a more sincere wish to do 
well to all mankind ; and if your rule has not been marked with 
the bold lines which sometimes distinguished your sjiiritual 
predecessors, their faults have equally been strangers to your 
character.” 

“ I did not believe,” said the Abbot, turning his looks to 
Father Eustace with some surprise, ‘Hhat you, father, of all 
men, would have done me this justice.” 

In your absence,” said the Sub-Prior, I have even done it 
more fully. Do not lose the good opinion which all men enter- 
tain of you, by renouncing your office when your care is most 
needed.” 

“ But, my brother,” said the Abbot, I leave a more able in 
my place.” 

That you do not,” said Eustace ; “ because it is not necessary 
you should resign, in order to possess the use of whatever expe- 
rience or talent I may be accounted master of. I have been 
long enough in this profession to know that the individual 
qualities which any of us may have, are not his own, but the pro- 
perty of the Community, and only so far useful when they pro- 
mote the general advantage. If you care not in person, my 
lord, to deal with this troublesome matter, let me implore you to 
go instantly to Edinburgh, and make what friends you can in our 
behalf, while I in your absence will, as Sub-Prior, do my duty in 
defence of the Halidome. If I succeed, may the honour and 
praise be yours, and if I fail, let the disgrace and shame be 
mine own.” 

The Abbot mused for a space, and then replied, — “ No, 
Father Eustatius, you shall not conquer me by your generosity. 
In times like these, this house must have a stronger pilotage than 
my weak hands afford ; and he who steers the vessel must be 
chief of the crew. Shame were it to accept the praise of other 
men’s labours; and, in my poor mind, all the praise which can 
be bestowed on him who undertakes a task so perilous and per- 
plexing, is a meed beneath his merits. Misfortune to him would 
deprive him of an iota of it ! Assume, therefore, your authority 


THE MONASTERY. 


ni7 

to-night, and ])roroocI in the preparations you judge necessary. 
Let the Cliapter bo sununoned to-morrow after we have heard 
mass, and all shall be ordered as I have told you. Benedicite, 
my brethren ! — peace be with you ! May the new Abbot- 
expectant sleep as sound as he who is about to resign hia 
mitre.” 

They retired, affected even to tears. The good Abbot had 
shewn a point of his character to which they were strangers. 
Even Father Eustace had held his spiritual Superior hitherto as 
a good-humoured, indolent, self-indulgent man, whose chief merit 
was the absence of gross faults ; so that this sacrifice of power to 
a sense of duty, even if a little alloyed by the meaner motives of 
fear and apprehended difficulties, raised him considerably in the 
Sub-Prior’s estimation. He even felt an aversion to profit by the 
resignation of the Abbot Boniface, and in a manner to rise on his 
j'uins ; but this sentiment did not long contend with those which 
led him to I'ecollect higher considerations. It could not be denied 
that Boniface was entirely unfit for his situation in the present 
crisis ; and the Sub-Prior felt that he himself, acting merely as a 
delegate, could not w'ell take the decisive measures which the time 
required ; the weal of the Community therefore demanded his 
elevation. If, besides, there crept in a feeling of a high dignity 
obtained, and the native exultation of a haughty spirit call^ to 
contend with the imminent dangers attached to a post of such 
distinction, these sentiments were so cunningly blended and 
amalgamated with others of a more disinterested nature, that, as 
the Sub-Prior himself was unconscious of their agency, we, who 
have a regard for him, are not solicitous to detect it. 

The Abbot elect carried himself with more dignity than formerly, 
when giving such directions as the pressing circumstances of the 
times required ; and those who approached him could perceive 
an unusual kindling of his falcon eye, and an unusual flush upon 
his pale and faded cheek. With briefness and precision he wrote 
and dictated various letters to different barons, acquainting 
them with the meditated invasion of the Halidome by the English, 
and conjuring them to lend aid and assistance as in a common 
cause. The temptation of advantage was held out to those 
whom he judged less sensible of the cause of honour, and all were 
urged by the motives of patriotism and ancient animosity to the 
English. The time had been when no such exhortations would 
have been necessary. But so essential was Elizabeth’s aid to the 
reformed party in Scotland, and so strong was that party almost 
every where, that there was reason to believe a great many would 
observe neutrality on the present occasion, even if they did not 
go the length of uniting with the English against the Catholics. 

When Father Eustace considered the number of the immediate 
vassals of the church whose aid he might legally command, his 
lieart sunk at the thoughts of ranking them under the banner of 
the fierce and profligate Julian Avenei. 


318 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Were the young enthusiast Halbert Glendinning to be found.” 
thought Father Eustace in his anxiety, I would have risked the 
battle under his leading, young as he is, and with better hope of 
God’s blessing. But the bailiff is now too infirm, nor know I a 
chief of name whom I might trust in this important matter better 
than this Avenel.” — He touched a bell which stood on the table, 
and commanded Christie of the Clinthill to be brought before 
him. — "Thou owest me a life,” said he to that person on his 
entrance, “ and I may do thee another good turn if thou be’st 
sincere with me.” 

Christie had already drained two standing-cups of wine, which 
would, on another occasion, have added to the insolence of his 
familiarity. But at present there was something in the aug- 
mented (fignity of manner of Father Eustace, which imposed a 
restraint on him. Yet his answers partook of his usual character 
of undaunted assurance. He professed himself willing to return 
a true answer to all inquiries. 

" Has the Baron (so styled) of Avenel any friendship with Sir 
John Foster, Warden of the West Marches of England ?” 

“ Such friendship as is between the wild-cat and the terrier,” 
replied the rider. 

" Will he do battle with him should they meet ?” 

" As surely,” answered Christie, " as ever cock fought on 
Shrovetide-even.” 

" And would he fight with Foster in the Church’s quarrel 1” 

" On any quarrel, or upon no quarrel whatever,” replied the 
Jackman. 

"We will then write to him, letting him know, that if upon 
occasion of an apprehended incursion by Sir John Foster he will 
agree to join his force with ours, he shall lead our men, and be 
gratified for doing so to the extent of his wish. — Yet one word 
more — Thou didst say thou couldst find out where the English 
knight Piercie Shafton has this day fled to ?” 

" That I can, and bring him back too, by fair means or force, 
as best likes your reverence.” 

" No force must be used upon him. Within what time wilt 
thou find him out ?” 

" Within thirty hours, so he have not crossed the Lothian firth 
— If it is to do you a pleasure, I will set off directly, and wind 
him as a sleutli-dog tracks the moss-trooper,” answered Christie. 

" Bring him hither then, and thou wilt deserve good at our 
hands, which I may soon have free means of bestowing on thee.” 

“ Thanks to your reverence, I put myself in your reverence’s 
hands. We of the spear and snaffle walk something recklessly 
through life ; but if a man were worse than he is, your reverence 
knows he must live, and that’s not to be done without shifting, I 
trow.” 

"Peace, Sir, and begone on thine errand — thou shalt have a 
letter from us to Sir Piercie.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


319 

Christie made two steps towards the door ; then turning back 
and hesitating, like one who would make an impertinent pleasan- 
try if he dared, he asked what he was to do with the wench Mysie 
Happer, whom the Southron knight had carried off with him. 

“ Am I to bring her hither, please your reverence 

“ Hither, you malapert knave ?” said the churchman ; remem- 
ber you to whom you speak ?” 

“ No offence meant,” replied Christie ; “ but if such is not your 
Avill, I would carry her to Avenel Castle, where a well-favoured 
wench was never unwelcome.” 

“Bring the unfortunate girl to her father’s, and break no 
scurril jests here,” said the Sub-Prior — “ See that thou guide her 
in all safety and honour.” 

“ In safety, surely,” said the rider, “ and in such honour as her 
outbreak has left her. — I bid your reverence farewell, I must be 
on horse before cock-crow.” 

“ What, in the dark ! — how knowest thou which way to go ?” 

“ I tracked the knight’s horse-tread as far as near to the ford, 
as we rode along together,” said Christie, “ and T observed the 
track turn to the northward. He is for Edinburgh, I will war- 
rant you — so soon as daylight comes I will be on the road again. 
It is a kenspeckle hoof-mark, for the shoe was made by old Eckie 
of Cannobie — I would swear to the curve of the cawker.” So 
saying, he departed. 

“ Hateful necessity,” said Father Eustace, looking after him, 
“ that obliges us to use such implements as these ! But, assailed 
as we are on all sides, and by all conditions of men, what alterna- 
tive is left us ? — But now let me to my most needful task.” 

The Abbot elect accordingly sate down to write letters, arrange 
orders, and take upon him the whole charge of an institution 
which tottered to its fall, with the same spirit of proud and devoted 
fortitude wherewith the commander of a fortress, reduced nearly 
to the last extremity, calculates what means remain to him to 
protract the fatal hour of successful storm. In the meanwhile 
Abbot Boniface, having given a few natural sighs to the downfall 
of the pre-eminence he had so long enjoyed amongst his brethren, 
fell fast asleep, leaving the whole cares and toils of office to his 
assistant and successor. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


And when he came to broken briggs. 

He, slack’d his bow and swam ; 

And when ho came to grass growing, 

Set down his feet and ran. 

Gil Morricf 

TV'e return to Halbert Glendinning, who, as our readers may 
remember, took the high-road to Edinburgh. His intercourse 


220 


THE MONASTERY. 


’vith the preacher Henry Warden, from whom he received a 
letter at the moment of his deliverance, had been so brief, that he 
had not even learned the name of the nobleman to whose care he 
was recommended. Something like a name had been spoken 
indeed, but he had only comprehended that he was to meet the 
chief advancing towards the south, at the head of a party of horse. 
When day dawned on his journey, he was in the same uncer- 
tainty. A better scholar w(tuld have been infoi’med by the address 
of the letter, but Halbert had not so far profited by Father 
Eustace’s lessons as to be able to decipher it. His mother-wit 
taught him that he must not, in such uncertain times, be too hasty 
in asking information of any one ; and when, after a long day’s 
journey, night surprised him near a little village, he began to be 
dubious and anxious concerning the issue of his journey. 

In a poor country, hospitality is generally exercised freely, and 
Halbert, when he requested a night’s quarters, did nothing either 
degrading or extraordinary. The old woman, to Avhom he made 
this request, granted it the moi’e readily, that she thought slie 
saw some resemblance between Halbert and her son Saunders, 
who had been killed in one of the frays so common in the time. 
It is true, Saunders wae a short square-made fellow, with red hair 
and a freckled face, and somewhat bandy-legged, whereas the 
stranger was of a brown complexion, tall, and remarkably well- 
made. Nevertheless, the widow was clear that there existed a 
general resemblance betwixt her guest and Saunders, and kindly 
])ressed him to share of her evening cheer. A pedlar, a man of 
about forty years old, was also her guest, who talked with great 
feeling of the misery of pursuing such a profession as his in the 
time of war and tumult. 

“ We think much of knights and soldiers,” said he ; “ but the 
pedder-coffe who travels the land has need of more courage than 
them all. I am sure he maun face niair risk, God help him. 
Here have I come this length, trusting the godly Earl of Murray 
would be on his march to the Borders, for lie was to have gues- 
tened with the Baron of Avenel ; and instead of that comes news 
that he has gone westlandways about some tuilzie in Ayrshire. 
And what to do I wot not ; for if I go to the south without a safe- 
guard, the next bonny rider I meet might ease me of sack and 
pack, and maybe of my life to boot ; and then, if I try to strike 
across the moors, I may be as ill off before I can join* myself to 
that good Lord’s company.” 

No one was quicker at catching a hint than Halbert Glcndin- 
ning. He said he himself had a desire to go westward. The pedlar 
looked at him with a very doubtful air, when the old dame, who 
perhaps thought her young guest resembled the umquhile Saun- 
ders, not only in his looks, but in a certain pretty turn to slight-of- 
liand, which the defunct w’as supposed to have possessed, tipped 
him the wink, and assured the pedlar he need have no doubt that 
her young cousin w'as a true man. 


THE MOXASTERT. 


S21 

“ Cousin !” said the pedlar, “ I tliought you said this youth had 
been a stranger.” 

“ 111 hearing makes ill rehearsing,” said the landlady; “ he is a 
stranger to me by eye-sight, but that does not make him a stranger 
to me by blood, more especially seeing his likeness to my son 
.Saunders, poor bairn.” 

The pedlar’s scruples and jealousies being thus removed, or at 
least silenced, the travellers agreed that they would proceed in 
company together the next morning by daybreak, the pedlar 
acting as a guide to Glendinning, and the youth as a guard to 
the pedlar, until they should fall in with Murray’s detachment of 
horse. It would appear that the landlady never doubted what 
was to be the event of this compact, for, taking Glendinning aside, 
she charged him, “ to be moderate with the puir body, but at all 
events, not to forget to take a piece of black say, to make the auld 
wife a new rokelay.” Halbert laughed and took his leave. 

It did not a little appal the pedlar, when, in the midst of a 
black heath, the young man told him the nature of the commis- 
sion with which their hostess had charged him. He took heart, 
however, upon seeing the open, frank, and friendly demeanour of 
the youth, and vented his exclamations on the ungrateful old 
ti’aitrcss. I gave her,” he said, “ yester-e’en nae farther gane, 
a yard of that very black say, to make her a couvre-chef ; but I 
see it is ill done to teach the cat the way to the kirn.” 

Thus set at ease on the intentions of his companion (for in 
those happy days the worst was always to be expected from a 
sti'anger,) the pedlar acted as Halbert’s guide over moss and 
moor, over hill and many a dale, in such a direction as might best 
lead them towards the route of Alurray’s party. At length they 
arrived upon the side of an eminence, which commanded a dis- 
tant prospect over a tract of savage and desolate moorland, marshy 
and waste — an alternate change of shingly hill and level morass, 
only varied by blue stagnant pools of water. A road scarcely 
marked winded like a serpent through this wilderness, and the 
pedlar, pointing to it, said — “ The road from Edinburgh to Glas- 
gow. Here we must wait, and if Murray and his train be not 
already passed by, we shall soon see trace of them, unless some 
new purpose shall have altei’ed their I’csolution ; for in these 
blessed days no man, were he the nearest the throne, as the Earl 
of Murray may be, knows when he lays his head on his pillow at 
night where it is to lie upon the following even.” 

They paused accordingly, and sat down, the pedlar cautiously 
using for a seat the box which contained his treasures, and not 
concealing from his companion that he wore under his cloak a 
pistolet hanging at his belt in case of need. He was courteous, 
however, and offered Halbert a shai’e of the provisions which he 
carried about him for refreshment. They wei’e of the coarsest 
kind — oat -bread baked into cakes, oatmeal slaked with cold 


322 


THE MONASTERY. 


water, an onion or two, and a morsel of smoked ham completed 
the feast. But such as it was, no Scotsman of the time, had his 
rank been much higher than that of Glendinning, would have 
refused to share in it, especially as the pedlar produced, with a 
mysterious air, a tup’s liorn, which he carried slung from his 
shoulders, and which, when its contents were examined, produced 
to each party a clam-shell-full of excellent usquebagh — a liquor 
strange to Halbert, for the strong w'aters known in the south of 
Scotland came from France, and in fact such w'ere but rarely 
used. The pedlar recommended it as excellent, said he had 
procured it in his last visit to the braes of Doune, where he had 
securely traded under the safe-conduct of the Laird of Buchanan. 
He also set an example to Halbert, by devoutly emptying the cup 
“ to the speedy downfall of Anti-Christ.” 

Their conviviality was scarce ended, ere a rising dust w'as seen 
=Dn the road of which they commanded the prospect, and half a 
acore of horsemen were dimly descried advancing at considerable 
speed, their casques glancing, and the points of their speai's 
twinkling as they caught a glimpse of the sun. 

“ These,” said the pedlar, “ must be the out-scourers of Murray’s 
party ; let us lie down in the peat-hag, and keep ourselves out 
of sight.” 

“ And why so 1” said Halbert; “ let us rather go down and make 
a signal to them.” 

“God forbid!” replied the pedlar; “do you ken so ill the 
customs of our Scottish nation * That plump of spears that are 
spurring on so fast are doubtless commanded by some wild kins- 
man of Morton, or some such dai'ing fear-nothing as neither 
regards God nor man. It is their business, if they meet with any 
enemies, to pick quarrels and clear the way of them; and the chief 
knows nothing of w’hat happens, coming up with his more discreet 
and moderate friends, it may be a full mile in the rear. Were 
we to go near these lads of the laird’s belt, your letter would do 
you little good, and my pack would do me muckle black ill ; they 
would tirl every steek of claithes from our backs, fling us into a 
moss-hag with a stone at our heels, naked as the hour that brought 
us into this cumbered and sinful world, and neither Murray nor any 
other man ever the wiser. But if he did come to ken of it, what 
might he help it ? — it would be accounted a mere mistake, and 
there were all the moan made. O credit me, youth, that when 
men draw cold steel on each other in their native country, they 
neither can nor may dwell deeply on the offences of those whose 
swords are useful to them.” 

They suffered, therefore, the vanguard, as it might be termed, of 
the Earl of Murray’s host to pass forward ; and it was not long 
until a denser cloud of dust began to arise to the northward. 

“Now,” said the pedlar, “let us hurry down the hill; for to tell 
the truth,” said he, dragging Halbert along earnestly, “ a Scottish 
noble’s march is like a serpent — the head is furnished with fangs. 


THE MONASTERY. 


323 

and the tail hath its sting; the only harmless point of access is the 
main body.” 

“I will hasten as fast as you,” said the youth; "but tell me 
why the rearward of such an army should be as dangerous as the 
van 1” 

" Because, as the vanguard consists of their picked wild des- 
perates, resolute for mischief, such as neither fear God nor regard 
their fellow-creatures, but understand themselves bound to hurry 
from the road whatever is displeasing to themselves, so the rear- 
guard consists of misproud serving-men, who, being in charge of 
the baggage, take care to amend by their exactions upon travel- 
ling-merchants and others, their own thefts on their master^s 
property. You wall hear the advanced enfans perdus, as the 
French call them, and so they are indeed, namely, children of 
the fall, singing unclean and fulsome ballads of sin and harlotrie. 
And then will come on the middle-ward, when you will hear the 
canticles and psalms sung by the reforming nobles, and the gen- 
try, and honest and pious clergy, by whom they are accompanied. 
And last of all, you will find in the rear a legend of godless 
lackeys, and palfreniers, and horse-boys, talking of nothing but 
dicing, drinking, and drabbing.” 

As the pedlar spoke, they had reached the side of the high-road, 
and Murray’s main body was in sight, consisting of about three 
hundred horse, marching with great regularity, and in a closely 
compacted body. Some of the troopers wore the liveries of their 
masters, but this was not common. Most of them were dressed in 
such colours as chance dictated. But the majority, being clad in 
blue cloth, and the whole armed wtth cuirass and back-plate, with 
sleeves of mail, gauntlets and poldroons, and either mailed hose 
or strong jack -boots, they had something of a uniform appearance. 
Many of tlie leaders w’ere clad in complete armour, and all 
in a certain half-military dress, which no man of quality in those 
disturbed times ever felt himself sufficiently safe to abandon. 

The foremost of this party immediately rode up to the pedlar 
and to Halbert Glendinning, and demanded of them who they 
were. The pedlar told his story, the young Glendinning exhibited 
his letter, which a gentleman carried to Murray. In an instant 
after, the word “ Halt !” was given through tlie squadron, and at 
once the onward heavy tramp, which seemed the most distinctive 
attribute of the body, ceased, and was heard no more. The 
command was announced that the troop should halt here for an 
hour to refresh themselves and their horses. The pedlar was 
assured of safe protection, and accommodated with the use of a 
baggage horse. But at the same time he was ordered into the 
rear ; a command which he reluctantly obeyed, and not without 
wringing pathetically the hand of Halbert as he separated from 
him. 

The young heir of Glendearg was in the meanwhile conducted 
to a plot of ground more raised, and tlierefore drier than the rest 


324 


THE MONASTERY. 


of the moor. Here a carpet was flung on the ground by way of 
table-cloth, and around it sat the leaders of the party, partaking 
of an entertainment as coarse, with relation to their rank, as that 
which Gleudinning had so lately shared. Murray himself rose 
as he came forward, and advanced a step to meet him. 

This celebrated person had in his appearance, as well as in hia 
mind, much of the admirable qualities of James V., his father. 
Had not the stain of illegitimacy rested upon his birth, he would 
have filled the Scottish throne with as much honour as any of the 
Stewart race. But History, while she acknowledges his high 
talents, and much that was princely, nay, royal, in his conduct, 
cannot forget that ambition led him farther than honour or loyalty 
warranted. Brave amongst the bravest, fair in presence and in 
favour, skilful to manage the most intricate affairs, to attach to 
himself those who were doubtful, to stun and overwhelm, by the 
suddenness and intrepidity of his enterprises, those who were reso- 
lute in resistance, he attained, and as to personal merit certainly 
deserved, the highest place in the kingdom. But he abused, 
under the inffuence of strong temptation, the opportunities which 
his sister Mary’s misfortunes and imprudence threw in his way ; 
he supplanted his sovereign and benefactress in her power, and 
his history affords us one of those mixed characters, in which 
principle was so often sacrificed to policy, that we must condemn 
the statesman while we pity and regret the individual. Many 
events in his life give likelihood to the charge that he himseli 
aimed at the crown ; and it is too true, that he countenanced the 
fatal expedient of establishing an English, that is a foreign and a 
hostile interest, in the councils of Scotland. But his death may 
be received as an atonement for his offences, and may serve to 
shew how much more safe is the person of a real patriot, than 
that of the mere head of a faction, who is accounted answerable 
for the offences of his meanest attendants. 

When Murray approached, the young rustic was naturally 
abashed at the dignity of his presence. The commanding form 
aud the countenance to which high and important thoughts were 
familiar, the features which bore the resemblance of Scotland’s 
long line of kings, were well calculated to impress awe and rever- 
ence. His dress had little to distinguish him from the high-born 
nobles and barons by whom he was attended. A buff-coat, richly 
embroidered with silken lace, supplied the place of armour ; and 
a massive gold chain, with its medal, hung round his neck. His 
black velvet bonnet was decoj-ated with a string of large and fair 
pearls, and with a small tufted feather ; a long heavy sword was 
girt to his side, as the familiar companion of his liand. He 
wore gilded spurs on his boots, and these completed his equip- 
ment. 

‘‘ This letter,” he said, « is from the godly preacher of the word, 
Henry Warden, young man ? is it not so ?” Halbert answered in 
the affirmative. “ And he writes to us, it would seem, in some 


THE MONASTERY. 325 

strait, and refers us to you for the circumstances. Let us know, 
I pray you, how things stand with him.” 

In some pertui’batiou Halbert Glendinning gave an account of 
tlie circumstances which had accompanied tlie preacher’s im- 
prisonment. Wlien he came to the discussion of the handfasting 
engagement, he was struck with the ominous and displeased 
expression of Murray’s brows, and, contrary to all prudential and 
politic rule, seeing something was wrong, yet not well aware 
what that something was, had almost stopped short in his naiTa- 
tive. 

“ What ails the fool ?” said the Earl, di’awing his dai’k-red 
eyebrows together, while the same dusky glow kindled on his 
brow — “ Hast thou not learned to tell a true tale without stam- 
mering ?” 

“ So please you,” answered Halbert, with considerable address, 
“ I have never before spoken in such a presence.” 

“ He seems a modest youth,” said Muimy, tm’ning to his next 
attendant, “ and yet one who in a good cause will neither fear 
friend nor foe. — Speak on, friend, and speak freely.” 

Halbert then gave an account of the quarrel betwixt Julian 
Avenel and the preacher, which the Earl, biting his lip the 
while, compelled himself to listen to as a thing of indifference. 
At first he appeared even to take the part of the Baron. 

“ Henry Warden,” he said, “ is too hot in his zeal. The law 
both of God and man maketh allowance for certain alliances, 
though not strictly formal, and the issue of such may succeed.” 

Tins general declaration, he expressed, accompanying it with 
a glance around tipon the few followers who were present at this 
interview. The most of them answered — “ There is no conti-a- 
vening that but one or two looked on the ground, and vvero 
silent. Murray then turned again to Glendinning, commanding 
him to say what next chanced, and not to omit any particular. 
When he mentioned the manner in which Julian had cast from 
him his concubine, Murray drew a deep breath, set his teeth hard, 
and laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Casting his eyes once 
more ai’ound the circle, which was now augmented by one or two 
of the reformed preachers, he seemed to devour his rage in 
silence, and again commanded Halbert to proceed. When he 
came to describe how W'arden had been dragged to a dungeon, 
the Earl seemed to have found the point at which he might give 
vent to his own resentment, secure of the sympathy and approba- 
tion of all who were present. “Judge you,” he said, looking to 
those around him, “judge you, my peers, and noble gentlemen of 
Scotland, betwixt me and this Julian Avenel — he hath broken 
his own word, and hath violated my safe-conduct — and judge 
you also, my reverend brethren, he hath put his hand forth upon 
a preacher of the gospel, and pei’chance may sell his blood to 
the worshippers of Anti-Christ !” 

“ Let him die the death of a traitor,” said the seculai* chiefs, 


THE MONASTERY. 


32G 

“ and let his tongue be struck through with the hangman’s fiery 
iron, to avenge his perjury !” 

" Let him go down to his place with Baal’s priests,” said the 
preachers, “ and be his ashes cast into Tophet !” 

Murray heard them with the smile of expected revenge ; yet it 
is probable that the brutal treatment of the female, whose cir- 
cumstances somewhat resembled those of the Earl’s own mother, 
had its share in the grim smile which curled his sun-burnt cheek 
and its haughty lip. To Halbert Glendinning, when his narrative 
was finished, he spoke with great kindness. 

“ He is a bold and gallant youth,” said he to those around, 
“ and formed of the stuff which becomes a bustling time. There 
are periods when men’s spirits shine bravely through them. I 
will know something more of him.” 

He questioned him more particulai'ly concerning the Baron of 
Avenel’s probable forces — the strength of his castle — the dis- 
positions of his next heir, and this brought necessarily forward 
the sad history of his brother’s daughter, Mary Avenel, which 
was told with an embarrassment that did not escape Murray. 

Ha ! Julian Avenel,” he said, “ and do you provoke my 
resentment, when you have so much more reason to deprecate 
my justice ! I Imew Walter Avenel, a true Scotsman and a good 
soldier. Our sister, the Queen, must right his daughter ; and 
were her land restored, she would be a fitting bride to some brave 
man who may better merit our favour than the traitor Julian.” 
— Then looking at Halbert, he said, " Art thou of gentle blood, 
young man ?” 

Halbert, with a faltering and uncertain voice, began to speak of 
his distant pretensions to claim a descent from the ancient Glen- 
donwynes of Galloway, when Murray interrupted him witli a smile. 

“ Nay — nay — leave pedigrees to bards and heralds. In our 
days, each man is the son of his own deeds. The glorious light 
of reformation hath shone alike on prince and peasant ; and 
peasant as well as prince may be illustrated by fighting in its 
defence. It is a stirring world, where all may advance them- 
selves who have stout hearts and strong arms. Tell me frankly 
why thou hast left tliy father’s house.” 

Halbert Glendinning made a frank confession of his duel with 
Piercie Shafton, and mentioned his supposed death. 

“ By my hand,” said Murray, “ thou art a bold sparrow-hawk, 
to match thee so early with such a kite as Piercie Shafton. 
Queen Elizabeth would give her glove filled with gold crowns to 
know that meddling coxcomb to be under the sod. — Would she 
not, Morton 1” 

Ay, by my word, and esteem her glove a better gift than tlie 
crowns,” rephed Morton, " which few Border lads like this 
fellow will esteem just valuation.” 

“ But what shall we do with this young homicide 1” said 
Murray ; “ what will our preachers say ?” 


THE MONASTERY. 327 

“ Tell them of Moses and of Benaiah,” said Morton j “ it is but 
the smiting of an Egyptian when all is said out.” 

“ Let it be so,” said Murray, laughing ; “ but we will bury the 
tale, as the prophet did the body, in the sand. I will take care 
of this swanlde. — Be near to us, Glendinning, since that is thy 
nam«. We retain thee as a squire of our household. The master 
of our horse will see thee fully equipped and armed.” 

During the expedition which he was now engaged in, Murray 
found several opportunities of putting Glendinning’s courage and 
presence of mind to the test, and he began to rise so rapidly in 
his esteem, that those who knew the Earl considered the youth’s 
fortune as certain. One step only was wanting to raise him to a 
still higher degree of confidence and favour — it was the abjura- 
tion of the Popish religion. The ministers who attended upon 
Murray, and formed his chief support amongst the people, found 
an easy convert in Halbert Glendinning, who, from his earliest 
days, had never felt much devotion towards the Catholic faith, 
and who listened eagerly to more reasonable views of religion. By 
thus adopting the faith of his master, he rose higher in his favour, 
and was constantly about his person during his prolonged stay in 
the west of Scotland, which the intractability of those whom the 
Earl had to deal with, protracted fi'om day to day, and week to 
week. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Faint the din of battle bray’d 
, Distant down the hollow wind ; 

War and terror fled before. 

Wounds and death were left behind. 

Penrose. 

The autumn of the year was well advanced, when the Earl of 
Morton, one morning, rather unexpectedly, entered the ante- 
chamber of Murray, in which Halbert Glandiuning was in 
waiting. 

“ Call your master. Halbert,” said the Earl ; ‘‘ I have news for 
him from Teviotdale ; and for you too, Glendinning. — News I 
news ! my Lord of Murray 1” he exclaimed at the door of the 
Earl’s bedroom ; “ come forth instantly.” The Earl appeared, 
and greeted his ally, demanding eagerly his tidings. 

“ 1 have had a sure friend with me from the south,” said 
Morton ; “ he has been at Saint Mary’s Monasteiy, and brings 
important tidings.” 

“ Of what complexion 1” said Murray, “ and can you trust the 
bearer 1” 

" He is faithful, on my life,” said Morton ; “ I wish all around 
your Lordship may prove equally so.” 

“ At whaf, and whom, do you point 1” demanded Murray. 


328 


THE MONASTERY. 


Here is the Egyptian of trusty Halbert Gleiidlnulng, our South* 
land Moses, come alive again, and flourishing, gay and bright as 
ever, in that Teviotdale Goshen, the Halidome of Kennaquhair.” 

“ What mean you, my lord said Murray. 

“ Only that your new henchman has put a false tale upon yon. 
Piercie Shafton is alive and well ; by the same token that the gull 
is thought to be detained there by love to a miller’s daughter, who 
roamed the country with him in disguise.” 

Glendinning,” said Murray, bending his brow into his darkest 
frown, “ thou hast not, T trust, dared to bring me a lie in thy 
mouth, in order to win my confidence 

“ My lord,” said Halbert, “ I am incapable of a lie. T should 
choke on one were my life to require that I pronounced it. I say, 
that this sword of my father was through the body — the point 
came out behind his back — the hilt pressed upon his lireastbone. 
And I will plunge it as deep in the body of any one who shall 
dare to charge me with falsehood.” 

“ How, fellow !” said Morton, “ wouldst thou beard a noble- 
man ?” 

“ Be silent. Halbert,” said Murray, “ and you, my Lord of 
Morton, forbear him. I see truth written on his brow.” 

“ I wish the inside of the manuscript may correspond with the 
superscription,” replied his more suspicious ally. Look to it, 
my lord, you will one day lose your life by too much confidence.” 

“ And you will lose your friends by being too readily suspi- 
cious,” answered Murray. " Enough of this — let me hear thy 
tidings.” 

“ Sir John Foster,” said Morton, is about to send a party into 
Scotland to waste the Halidome.” 

“ How ! without waiting my presence and permission said 
Murray — “he is mad — will he come as an enemy into the 
Queen’s country ?” 

“ He has Elizabeth’s express orders,” answered Morton, “ and 
they are not to be trifled with. Indeed, his march has been more 
than once projected and laid aside during the time we have been 
here, and has caused much alarm at Kennaquhair. Boniface, 
the old Abbot, has resigned, and whom think yon they have 
chosen in his place ?” 

“No one surely,” said Murray ; “ they would presume to hold 
no election until the Queen’s pleasure and mine were known ?” 

Morton shrugged his shoulders — “ They have chosen the pupil 
of old Cardinal Beatoun, that wily determined champion of 
Rome, the bosom-friend of our busy Primate of Saint Andre\\ s. 
Eustace, late the Sub-Prior of Kennaquhair, is now its Abbot, 
and, like a second Pope Julius, is levying men and making mus- 
ters to fight with Foster if he comes forwai'd.” 

“ We must prevent that meeting,” said Murray, hastily ; 
“ whichever party wins the day, it were a fatal encounter for\;s 
— Who commands the troop of the Abbot V* 


THE MONASTERY. 329 

‘‘ Our faithful old friend, Julian Avenel, nothing less,” answered 
Morton. 

“ Glendinning,” said Murray, “ sound trumpets to horse 
directly, and let all who love us get on horseback without delay 
— Yes, my lord, this wei’e indeed a fatal dilemma. If we take 
part with our English friends, the country will ci’y shame on us 
— the very old wives will attack us with their rocks and spindles 
■ — the very stones of the stx'eet will rise up against us — we cannot 
set our face to such a deed of infamy. And my sister, whose 
confidence I already have such difficulty in preserving, will alto- 
gether withdraw it from me. Then, were we to oppose the 
English Warden, Elizabeth would call it a protecting of her ene- 
mies and what not, and we should lose her.” 

“ The she-dragon,” said Morton, “ is the best card in our pack ; 
and yet I would not willingly stand still and see English blades 
carve Scots flesh — What say you to loitering by the way, march- 
ing far and easy for fear of spoiling our horses ? They might then 
fight dog fight bull, fight Abbot fight archer, and no one could 
blame us for what chanced when we were not present.” 

“ All would blame us, James Douglas,” replied Murray ; “ we 
should lose both sides — we had better advance with the utmost 
celerity, and do what we can to keep the peace betwixt them. — 
I would the nag that brought Piercie Shafton hither had broken 
his neck over the highest heuch in Northumberland !• — He is a 
proper coxcomb to make all this bustle about, and to occasion 
perhaps a national war !” 

“ Had Ave known in time,” said Douglas, “ we might have 
had him privily waited upon as he entered the Borders ; there 
are strapping lads enough would have rid us of him for the 
lucre of his spur-whang. * But to the saddle, James Stewart, 
since so the phrase goes. I hear your trumpets sound to horse 
and away — we shall soon see which nag is best breathed.” 

Followed by a train of about three hundi-ed well-mounted 
men-at-arms, these two powerful barons directed their course to 
Dumfries, and from thence, eastward to Teviotdale, marching 
at a rate, which, as Morton had foretold, soon disabled a good 
many of their horses, so that when they approached the scene of 
expected action, there were not above two hundred of their train 
remaining in a body, and of these most were mounted on steeds 
which had been sorely jaded. 

They had hitherto been amused and agitated by various reports 
concerning the advance of the English soldiers, and the degree of 
resistance which the Abbot was able to oppose to them. But 
when they were six or seven miles from Saint Mary’s of Kcnna- 
Quhair, a gentleman of the country, whom Miuray had summoned 
to attend him, and on whose intelligence he knew he could rely, 
arrived at the head of two or three servants, “ bloody with spur- 


* — Spur-lcutber. 


THE MONASTERY. 


330 

ring, fiery red with haste.” According to his report, Sir John 
Foster, after several times announcing, and as often delaying, his 
intended incursion, had at last been so stung with the news that 
Piercie Shafton was openly residing within the Plalidome, that he 
determined to execute the commands of his mistress, which 
directed him, at every risk, to make himself master of the 
Euphuist’s person. The Abbot’s unceasing exertions had col- 
lected a body of men almost equal in number to those of the 
English Warden, but less practised in arms. They were united 
under the command of Julian Avenel, and it was apprehended 
they would join battle upon the banks of a small stream which 
forms the verge of the Halidome. 

Who laiows the place ?” said Murray. 

“ I do, my lord,” answered Glendinning. 

“ ’Tis well,” said the Earl ; “ take a score of the best-mounted 
horse — make what haste thou canst, and announce to them that 
I am coming up inshintly with a strong power, and will cut to 
pieces, without mercy, whichever party strikes the first blow. — 
Davidson,” said he to the gentleman who brought the intelligence, 

thou shalt be my guide. — Hie thee on, Glendinning — Say to 
Foster, I conjure him, as he respects his mistress’s service, that 
he will leave the matter in my hands. Say to the Abbot, I will 
burn the Monastery over his head, if he strikes a stroke till I 
come — Tell the dog, Julian Avenel, that he hath already one 
deep score to settle with me — I will set his head on the top of 
the highest pinnacle of Saint Mary’s, if he presume to open 
another. Make haste, and spare not the spur for fear of spoiling 
horse-flesh.” 

" Your bidding shall be obeyed, my lord,” said Glendinning ; 
and choosing those whose horses were in best plight to be his 
attendants, he went off as fast as the jaded state of their cavalry 
permitted. Hill and hollow vanished from under the feet of the 
chargers. 

They had not ridden half the way, when they met stragglers 
coming off from the field, whose appearance announced that the 
conflict was begun. Two supported in their arms a third, their 
elder brother, who was pierced with an arrow through the body^ 
Halbert, who Imew them to belong to the Halidome, called them 
by their names, and questioned them of the state of the affray ; 
but just then, in spite of their efforts to retain him in the saddle,, 
their brother dropped from the hoi’se, and they dismounted ir 
haste to receive his last breath. From men thus engaged, nci, 
information was to be obtained. Glendinning, therefore, pushed 
on with his little troop, the more anxiously as he perceived other 
stragglers, bearing Saint Andrew’s cross upon their caps and coi’- 
slets, flying apparently from the field of battle. Most of these, when 
they were aware of a body of horsemen approaching on the road, 
held to the one hand or the other, at such a distance as precluded 
coming to speech of them. Others, whose fear was more intense. 


THE MONASTERY. 


331 

kept the onwai’d road, galloping wildly as fast as tlieir horses 
could carry them, and when questioned, only glared without reply 
( n those who spoke to them, and rode on without drawing bridle. 
Several of these were also known to Halbert, who had therefore 
no doubt, from the cii’cumstances in which he met them, that the 
men of the Halidome were defeated. He became now unspeakably 
anxious concerning the fate of his brother, who, he could not 
doubt, must have been engaged in the . affray. He therefore 
increased the speed of his horse, so that not above five or six of 
his followers could keep up with him. At length he reached a 
little hill, at the descent of which, surrounded by a semicircular 
sweep of a small stream, lay the plain which had been the scene 
of the skirmish. 

It was a melancholy spectacle. War and terror, to use the 
expression of the poet, had rushed on to the field, and left only 
wounds and death behind them. The battle had been stoutly 
contested, as was almost always the case with tliese Border skir- 
mishes, where ancient hatred, and mutual injuries, made men 
stubborn in maintaining the cause of their conflict. Towards the 
middle of the plain, there lay the bodies of several men who had 
fallen in the very act of grappling with the enemy ; and there 
were seen countenances which still bore the stern expression ot 
unextinguishable hate and defiance, hands which clasped the hilt 
of tJie broken falchion, or strove in vain to pluck the deadly arrow 
TOODi the wound. Some were wounded, and, cowed of the courage 
Jiey had lately shewn, were begging aid, and craving water, in a 
tone of melancholy depression, while others tried to teach the 
faltering tongue to pronounce some half forgotten prayer, whicli^ 
even when first learned, they had but half-understood. Halbert, 
uncertain w'hat course he was next to pursue, rode through the 
plain to see if, among the dead or wounded, he could discover any 
traces of his brother Edward. He experienced no interruption 
from the English. A distant cloud of dust announced that they 
were still pursuing the scattered fugitives, and he guessed, that to 
approach them with his followers, until they were again under 
some command, would be to throw away his own life, and that ot 
liis men, whom the victors would instantly confound with the 
Scots, against whom they had been successful. He resolved, 
Uicrefore, to pause until Murray came up with his forces, to which 
ho was the more readily moved, as he heard the trumpets of the 
English Warden sounding the retreat, and recalling from the 
pursuit. He dre^v his men togetlier, and made a stand in an 
advantageous spot of ground, which had been occupied by the 
Scots in the beginning of the action, and most fiercely disputed 
while the skirmish lasted. 

While he stood here. Halbert’s ear was assailed by the feeble 
moan of a woman, which ho had not expected to hear amid that 
scene, until the retreat of the foes had permitted the relations of 
the slain to approach, for the purpose of paying them the last 


THE MONASTERY. 


332 

duties. He looked with anxiety, and at length observed, that by 
the body of a knight in bright armour, whose crest, though soiled 
and broken, still shewed the marks of rank and birth, there sat a 
female, wrapt in a horseman’s cloak, and holding something 
pressed against her bosom, which he soon discovered to be a 
child. He glanced towards the English. They advanced not, 
and the continued and prolonged sound of their trumpets, with 
the shouts of the leaders, announced that their powers would not 
be instantly re-assembled. He had, thei*efore, a moment to look 
after this unfortunate woman. He gave his horse to a spearman 
as he dismounted, and approaching the unhappy female, asked 
her, in the most soothing tone he could assume, whether he could 
assist her in her distress. The mourner made him no direct 
answer ; but endeavouring, with a trembling and unskilful hand, 
to undo the springs of the visor and gorget, said in a tone of 
impatient grief, “ Oh, he would recover instantly could I but give 
him air — land and living, life and honoui*, would T give for the 
power of undoing these cruel iron platings that suffocate him !” 
He that would soothe soitovv must not argue on the vanity of the 
most deceitful hopes. The body lay as that of one whose last 
draught of vital air had been drawn, and who must never more 
have concern with the nether sky. But Halbert Glendinning 
failed not to raise the visor and cast loose the gorget, when, to 
his great surprise, he recognized the pale face of Julian Avenel. 
His last fight w'as over, the fierce and turbid spirit had departed 
in the strife in which it had so long delighted. 

“ Alas ! he is gone,” said Halbert, speaking to the young 
woman, in whom he had now no difficulty of knowing the unhappy 
Catherine. 

“ Oh, no, no, no !” she reiterated, do not say so — he is not 
dead — he is but in a swoon. I have lain as long in one myself 
— and then his voice would rouse me, when he spoke kindly, and 
said, Catherine, look up for my sake — And look up, Julian, for 
mine !” she said, addressing the senseless corpse ; “ I know you 
do but counterfeit to frighten me, but I am not frightened,” slie 
added, with an hysterical attempt to laugh ; and then instantly 
changing her tone, entreated him to “ speak, were it but to curse 
my folly. Oh, the rudest word you ever said to me would now 
sound like the dearest you wasted on me before I gave you all. 
Lift him up,” she said, “ lift him up, for God’s sake ! — have you 
no compassion ? He promised to wed me if I bore him a boy, 
and this child is so like to its father ! — How shall he keep his 
Word, if you do not help me to awaken him ? — Christie of the 
Clinthill, Rowley, Hutcheon ! ye were constant at his feast, but 
ye fled from him at the fray, false villains as ye are !” 

Not I, by Heaven !” said a dying man, who made some shift 
to raise himself on his elbow, and discovered to Halbert the well 
kno^vn features of Christie; “ I fled not a foot, and a man can but 
fight wliile his breath lasts — mine is going fast. — So, youngster,” 


THE MONASTERY 


333 


said be, looking at Glendinning, and seeing his military dress, 

“ thou hast ta’en the basnet at last ? it is a better cap to live in 
than die in. I would chance had sent tliy brother here instead — • 
there was good in him — but thou art as wild, and wilt soon be au 
wicked as myself.” 

“ God forbid !” said Halbert, hastily. 

“ Marry, and amen, with all my heart,” said the wounded man, 

there will be company enow without thee where I am going. 
But God be praised 1 had no hand in that wickedness,” said he, 
looking to poor Catherine ; and with some exclamation in his 
mouth, that sounded betwixt a prayer and a curse, the soul of 
Christie of the Clinthill took wing to the last account. 

Deeply wrapt in the painful interest which these shocking 
events had excited, Glendinning forgot for a moment his own 
situation and duties, and was first recalled to them by a trampling 
of horse, and the cry of Saint George for England, which the 
English soldiers still continued to use. His handful of men, for 
most of the stragglers had waited for Murray’s coming up, remained 
on horseback, holding their lances upright, having no command 
either to submit or resist. 

‘‘ There stands our Captain,” said one of them, as a strong 
party of English came vip, the vanguard of Foster’s troop. 

“ Your Captain ! with his sword sheathed, and on foot in the 
presence of his enemy I a I’aw soldier, I warrant him,” said the 
English leader. “ So ! ho ! young man, is your dream out, and 
will you now answer me if you will fight or fly 1” 

" Neither,” answered Halbert Glendinning, with great ti'an- 
quillity. 

“ Then throw down thy sword and yield thee,” answered tho 
Englishman. 

“ Not till I can help myself no otherwise,” said Halbert, with 
thc'^same moderation of tone and manner. 

“ Art thou for thine own hand, friend, or to whom dost thou 
owe service ?” demanded the English Captain. 

“ To the noble Earl of Murray.” 

“ Then thou servest,” said the Southron, “ the most disloyal 
nobleman who breathes — false both to England and Scotland.” 

“ Thou liest !” said Glendinning, regardless of all consequences. 

“ Ha ! art thou so hot now, and wert so cold but a minute 
since ? I lie, do I ? Wilt thou do battle with me on tliat 
quarrel f ’ 

“ With one to one — one to two — or two to five, as you list,” 
said Halbert Glendinning ; “ grant me but a fair field.” 

“ That thou shalt have. — Stand back, my mates,” said the 
brave Englishman. “ If I fall, give him fair play, and let him 
go off free with his people.” 

“ Long life to the noble Captain !” cried the soldiers, as impa- 
tient to see the duel as if it had been a bull-baiting. 

He wall have a short life of it, though,” said the sergeant, “ if 


THE MONASTERY. 


S34 

he, an old man of sixty, is to fight for any reason, or for no reason, 
with every man he meets, and especially the young fellows he 
might be father to. — And here comes the Warden besides, to see 
tlie sword-play.” 

In fact. Sir John Foster came up with a considerable body of 
his horsemen, just as liis Captain, whose age rendered him unequal 
to tlie combat with so strong and active a youth as Glendinning, 
was deprived of his sword. 

“ Take it up for shame, old Stawarth Bolton,” said the English 
Warden; “and thou, young man, tell me who and what thou 
art ?” 

“ A follower of the Earl of Murray, who bore his will to your 
honour,” answered Glendinning, — “ but here he comes to say it 
himself, I see the van of his horsemen come over the hills. 

“ Get into order, my masters,” said Sir John Foster to his 
followers; “you that have broken your spears, draw your swords. 
We are sometliing unprovided for a second field, but if yonder 
dark cloud on the hill edge bring us foul weather, we must bear as 
bravely as our broken cloaks wiU bide it. Meanwhile, Stawarth, 
we have got the deer we have hunted for — here is Piercie Shafton 
hard and fast betwixt two troopers.” 

“ Who, that lad ?” said Bolton ; “ he is no more Piercie Shafton 
than T am. He hath his gay cloak indeed — but Piercie Shafton 
is a round dozen of years older than that slip of roguery. I have 
known him since he was thus high. Did you never see him in the 
tilt-yard or in the presence 

“ To the devil with such vanities!” said Sir John Foster; “ when 
had I leisure for them or any thing else ? During my whole life 
has she kept me to this hangman’s office, chasing thieves one day 
and traitors anothei*, in daily fear of my life ; the lance never 
hung up in the hall, the foot never out of the stirrup, the saddles 
never off my nags’ backs ; and now, because I have been mistaken 
in the person of a man I never saw, 1 warrant me, the next letters 
from the Privy Council will rate me as I were a dog — a man 
were better dead than thus slaved and harassed.” 

A trumpet interrupted Foster’s complaints, and a Scottish pur- 
suivant who attended, declared “ that the noble Earl of Murray 
desii’ed, in all honour and safety, a personal conference with Sir 
John Foster, midway between their parties, with six of company 
in each, and ten free minutes to come and go.” 

“ And now,” said the Englishman, comes another plague. I 
must go speak with yonder false Scot, and he knows how to frame 
his devices, to cast dust in the eyes of a plain man, as well as 
ever a knave in the north. I am no match for him in words, and 
for hard blows we are but too ill provided. — Pursuivant, we grant 
the conference — and you. Sir Swordsman,” (speaking to young 
Glendinning,) “ draw off with your troopers to your own party — 
march — attend your Earl’s trumpet. — Stawarth Bolton, put our 
troop in ordei: and be ready to move forward at the wagging of a 


THE MONASTERY. 335 

finger. — Get you gone to your owui friends, I tell you, Sir Squire, 
and loiter not here.” 

Notwithstanding this peremptory order. Halbert Glendinning 
could not help stopping to cast a look upon the unfortunate 
Catherine, who lay insensible of the danger and of the trampling of 
so many horses around her, insensible, as the second glance 
assured him, of all and for ever. Glendinning almost rejoiced 
when he saw that the last raisei'y of life was over, and that the 
hoofs of the war-horses, amongst which he was compelled to 
leave her, could only injure and deface a senseless corpse. He 
caught the infant from her arms, half ashamed of the shout 
of laughter which rose on all sides, at seeing an armed man 
in such a situation assume such an unwonted and inconvenient 
burden. 

“ Shoulder your infant !” cried a harquebusier. 

“ Port your infant !” said a pikeman. 

“ Peace, ye brutes,” said Stawarth Bolton, “ and respect 
humanity in others, if you have none yourselves. I pardon the 
lad having done some discredit to my gray hairs, when I see him 
take care of that helpless creature, which ye would have trampled 
upon as if ye had been littered of bitch-wolves, not born of 
women.” 

While this passed, the leaders on either side met in the neutral 
space betwixt the forces of either, and the Earl accosted the 
English Warden : “ Is this fair or honest usage. Sir John, or for 
whom do you hold the Earl of Morton and myself, that you ride 
in Scotland with arrayed banner, fight, slay, and make prisoners 
at your own pleasure ? Is it well done, think you, to spoil our 
land and shed our blood, after the many proofs we have given to 
your mistress of our devotion due to her will, saving always the 
allegiance due to our o\vn sovereign V’ 

“ My Lord of Murray,” answered Foster, “ all the world knows 
you to be a man of quick ingine and deep wisdom, and these 
several weeks have you held me in hand with promising to arrest 
my sovereign mistress’s rebel, this Piercie Shafton of Wilverton, 
and you have never kept your word, alleging turmoils in the west, 
and I wot not what other causes of hinderance. Now, since he 
has had the insolence to return hither, and live openly within ten 
miles of England, I could no longer, in plain duty to my mistress 
and queen, tarry upon your successive delays, and therefore I 
have used her force to take her rebel, by the strong hand, where- 
ever I can find him.” 

And is Piercie Shafton in your hands, then ?” said the Earl 
of Murray. “ Be aware that I may not, without my own great 
sliame, suffer you to remove him hence without doing battle.” 

“ Will you. Lord Earl, after all the advantages you have 
received at the hands of the Queen of England, do battle in the 
cause of her rebel ?” said Sir John Foster. 

Not so, Sir John,” answered the Eaid, “ but I will fight to 


33G THE MONASTERY. 

the death in defence of the liberties of our free liingdotn Cf 
Scotland.” 

“ By my faith,” said Sir John Foster, “ I am well content — 
my sword is not blunted with all it has done yet this day.” 

“ By my honour. Sir John,” said Sir George Heron of Cb ip- 
chase, “ there is but little reason we should f.ght these Scottish 
Lords e’en now, for I hold opinion with old Stawarth Bolton, and 
believe yonder prisoner to be no more Piercie Shafton than he is 
the Earl of Northumberland ; and you were but ill advised to 
break the. peace betwixt the countries for a prisoner of less con- 
sequence than that gay mischief-maker.” 

“ Sir George,” replied Foster, “ I have often heard you herons 
are afraid of hawks — Nay, lay not hand on sword, man — I did 
but jest ; and for this prisoner, let him be brought up hither, that 
we may see who or what he is — always under assurance, my 
Lords,” he continued, addressing the Scots. 

“ Upon our word and honour,” said Morton, we will offer no 
violence.” 

The laugh turned against Sir John Foster considerably, when 
the prisoner, being brought up, proved not only a different person 
from Sir Piei’cie Shafton, but a female in man’s attire. 

Pluck the mantle from the quean’s face, and cast her to the 
horse-boys,” said Foster ; “ she has kept such company ere now, 
I warrant.” 

Even Murray was moved to laughter, no common thing with 
him, at the disappointment of the English Warden ; but he would 
not permit any violence to be offered to the fair Molinara, who 
had thus a second time rescued Sir Piercie Shafton at her own 
personal risk. 

“ Yon have already done more mischief than you can well 
answer,” said the Earl to the English Warden, “ and it were 
dishonour to me should I permit you to harm a hair of this young 
woman’s head.” 

“ My lord,” said Morton, if Sir John will ride apart with me 
but for one moment, I will shew him such reasons as shall make 
him content to depart, and to refer this unhappy day’s work to 
the judgment of the Commissoners nominated to try offences on 
the Border.” 

He then led Sir John Foster aside, and spoke to him in this 
manner: — “Sir John Foster, I much marvel that a man who 
knows your Queen Elizabeth as you do, should not know that, if 
you hope any thing from her, it must be for doing her useful 
service, not for involving her in quarrels with her neighbours 
without any advantage. Sir Knight, I will speak frankly what I 
know to be true. Had you seized the true Piercie Shafton by 
this ill-advised inroad ; and had your deed threatened, as most 
likely it might, a breach betwixt the countries, your politic princess 
and her politic council would rather have disgraced Sir John 
Foster than entered into war in his behalf. But now tliat you have 


THE MONASTERY. 


337 

stricken short of your aim, you may rely on it you will have little 
tUanks for earrying the matter farther. I will work thus far on 
the Earl of MuiTay, that he will undertake to dismiss Sir Piercio 
Shafton from the realm of Scotland. — Be well advised, and let 
the matter now pass off — you will gain nothing by farther 
violence, for if we fight, you as the fewer and the weaker through 
your former action, will needs have the worse.” 

Sir John Foster listened with his head declining on his breast- 
plate. 

“ It is a cursed chance,” he said, and I shall have little thanks 
for my day’s work.” 

He then rode up to Murray, and said, that, in deference to 
his Lordship’s presence and that of my Lord of Morton, he had 
come to the resolution of withdrawing himself, with his power, 
without farther proceedings. 

“ Stop there. Sir John Foster,” said Murray, “ I cannot permit 
you to retire in safety, unless you leave some one who may be 
surety to Scotland, that the injuides you have at present done us 
may ]»e fully accounted for — j-ou will reflect, that by permitting 
your retreat, I become accountable to my Sovereign, who will 
demand a reckoning of me for the blood of her subjects, if 1 sufler 
those who shed it to depart so easily.” 

“It shall never be told in England,” said the Warden, “ that 
John Foster gave pledges like a subdued man, and that on the 
very field on which he stands victorious. — But,” he added, after 
a moment’s pause, “ if Stawarth Bolton wills to abide with you 
on his own free choice, I will say nothing against it ; and, as I 
bethink me, it were better he should stay to see the dismissal of 
this same Piercie Shafton.” 

“ I receive him as your hostage, nevertheless, and shall treat 
him as such,” said the Earl of Muri'ay. But Foster, turning 
away as if to give directions to Bolton and his men, affected not 
to hear this observation. 

“ There rides a faithful servant of his most beautiful and 
Sovereign Lady,” said Murray aside to Morton. “ Happy man ! 
he knows not whether the execution of her commands may not 
cost him his head ; and yet he is most certain that to leave them 
unexecuted will bring disgrace and death without reprieve. 
Happy are they vdio are not only subjected to the caprices of 
Dame Fortune, but held bound to account and be I’espongible for 
them, and that to a sovereign as moody and fickle as her 
humorous ladyship herself !” 

“ We also have a female Sovereign, my lord,” said Morton. 

“ We have so, Douglas,” said the Earl, with a suppressed sigh ; 
“ but it remains to be seen how long a female hand can hold the 
reins of power in a realm so wild as ours. We will now go on to 
Saint Mary’s, and see ourselves after the state of that House. — 
Glendinning, look to that woman, and protect her. — What the 
fiend, man, hast thou got in thine arms? — an infant as I live 1 — 

X. T 


THE MONASTERY. 


338 

where couldst tliou find such a charge, at such a place and 
moment 1” 

Halbert Glen dinning briefly told the story. The Earl rode 
forward to the place where the body of Julian Avenel lay, with 
his unhappy companion’s arms wrapt around him, like the trunk 
of an uprooted oak borne down by the tempest with all its ivy 
garlands. Both were cold dead. Murray was touched in an 
unwonted degree, remembering, perhaps, his own birth. " What 
have they to answer for, Douglas,” he said, “ who thus abuse the 
sweetest gifts of affection ?” 

The Earl of Morton, unhappy in his inarnage, was a libertine 
in his amours. 

“ You must ask that question of Henry Warden, my lord, 
or of John Knox — I am but a wild counsellor in women’s 
matters.” 

“ Forward to Saint Mary’s,” said the Earl ; “ pass the word on 
— Glendinning, give the infant to this same female cavalier, and 
let it be taken charge of. Let no dishonour be done to the dead 
bodies, and call on the country to bui-y or remove them. — For- 
ward, I say, my masters !” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Gone to be married ? — Gone to swear a peace ! 

King John. 

The news of the lost battle, so quickly carried by the fugitives 
to the village and convent, had spread the greatest alarm among 
the inhabitants. The Sacristan and other monks counselled 
flight ; the Treasurer recommended that the church plate should 
be offered as a tribute to bribe the English officer ; tlie Abbot 
alone was unmoved and undaunted. 

“ My bretlmen,” he said, “ since God has not given our people 
victory in the combat, it must be because he requires of us, his 
spiritual soldiers, to fight the good fight of martyrdom, a conflict 
in which nothing but our own faint-hearted cowardice can make 
us fail of victory. Let us assume, then, the armour of faith, and 
prepare, if it be necessary, to die under the ruin of these shrines, 
to the service of which we have devoted ourselves. Highly 
honoured are we all in this distinguished summons, from our dear 
brother Nicholas, whose gray hairs have been preserved until 
tliey should be surrounded by the crown of martyrdom, down to 
my beloved son Edward, who, arriving at the vineyard at the 
latest hour of the day, is yet permitted to share its toils with 
those who have laboured from the morning. Be of good courage, 
my children. I dare not, like my sainted predecessors, promise 
to you tliat you shall be preserved by miracle — I and you are 


THE MONASTERY. 


339 

alike unworthy of that especial interposition, which in earlier 
times, turned the sword of sacrilege against the bosom of tyrants 
by whom it was wielded, daunted the hardened hearts of heretics 
with prodigies, and called do\vn hosts of angels to defend, the 
shrine of God and of the Virgin. Yet, by heavenly aid, you shall 
tliis day see that your Father and Abbot will not disgrace the 
mitre which sits upon his brow. Go to your cells, my children, 
and exercise your private devotions. Array yourselves also in 
alb and cope, as for our most solemn festivals, and be ready, 
when the tolling of the largest bell announces the approach of 
the enemy, to march forth to meet them in solemn procession. 
Let the church be opened to afford such refuge as may be to 
those of our vassals, who, from their exertion in this day’s 
unhappv battle^ or other cause, are particularly apprehensive of 
the rage of the enemy. Tell Sir Piercie Shafton, if he has escaped 
the fight ” 

‘‘ I am here, most venerable Abbot,” replied Sir Piercie ; and 
if it so seemeth meet to you, I will presently assemble such of the 
men as have escaped this escararaouche, and will renew the 
resistance, even unto the death. Certes, you will learn from all, 
tliat I did my part in this unhappy matter. Had it pleased 
Juhan Ayenel to have attended to my counsel, specially in some- 
what withdrawing of his main battle, even as you may have 
marked the heron eschew tlie stoop of tlie falcon, receiving him 
rather upon his beak than upon his wing, afifairs, as I do con- 
ceive, might have had a different face, and we might then, in a 
more bellicose manner, have maintained that affray. Neverthe- 
less, I would not be understood to speak any thing in disregard 
of Julian Avenel, whom I saw fall fighting manfully with his face 
to his enemy, which hath banished from my memory the un- 
seemly term of ‘ meddling coxcomb,’ with which it pleased him 
something rashly to qualify my advice, and for which, had it 
pleased Heaven and the saints to have prolonged the hfe of that 
excellent person, I had it bound ilpon my soul to have put him 
to death with my own hand.” 

“ Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot, at length interrupting him, “ our 
time allows brief leisure to speak what might have been.” 

“ You are right, most venerable Lord and Father,” replied the 
incorrigible Euphuist ; the preterite, as gi’ammarians have it, 
concerns frail mortality less than the future mood, and indeed our 
cogitations respect chiefly the present. In a word, I am willing 
to head all who will follow me, and offer such opposition as man- 
hood and mortality may permit, to the advance of the English, 
though they be my own countrymen ; and be assured, Piercie 
Shafton will measure his length, being five feet ten inches, on tlie 
ground as he stands, rather than give two yai’ds in retreat, 
according to the usual motion in which we retrograde.” 

“ 1 thank you. Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “ and I doubt not 
that you would make your words good ; but it is not the will of 


THE MONASTERY. 


840 

Heaven that carnal weapons should rescue us. We are called to 
endure, not to resist, and may not waste the blood of our inno- 
cent commons in vain — Fruitless opposition becomes not men 
of our profession ; they have my commands to resign the sword 
and the spear, — God and Our Lady have not blessed our 
banner.” 

“ Bethink you, reverend lord,” said Piercie Shafton, very 
eagerly, “ere you resign the defence that is in your power — 
thei’e are many posts near the entry of this village, where brave 
men might live or die to the advantage ; and I have this additional 
motive to make defence, — the safety, namely, of a fair friend, 
who, I hope, hath escaped the hands of the heretics.” 

“ I understand you. Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot — “ you 
mean the daughter of our Convent’s miller 

“ Reverend my lord,” said Sir Piercie, not without hesitation, 
“ the fair Mysinda is, as may be in some sort alleged, the 
daughter of one who mechanically preparetli corn to be mani- 
pulated into bread, without which we could not exist, and which 
is therefore an employment in itself honourable, nay, necessary. 
Nevertheless, if the purest sentiments of a generous mind, 
streaming forth like the rays of the sun reflected by a diamond, 
may ennoble one, who is in some sort the daughter of a molen- 
dinary mechanic ” 

“ I have no time for all this. Sir Knight,” said the Abbot ; “ be 
it enough to answer, that with our will we war no longer with 
carnal weapons. We of the spirituality will teach you of the 
temporality how to die in cold blood, our hands not clenched for 
resistance, but folded for prayer — our minds not filled with 
jealous hatred, but with Christian meekness and forgiveness — 
our ears not deafened, nor our senses confused, by the sound oi 
clamorous instruments of war ; but, on the contrary, our voices 
composed to Halleluiah, Kyrie-Eleison, and Salve Regina, and 
our blood temperate and cold, as those who think upon recon- 
ciling themselves with God, nl)t of avenging themselves of their 
fellow-mortals.” 

“ Lord Abbot,” said Sir Piercie, “ this is nothing to the fate of 
my Molinara, whom, I beseech you to observe, I will not abandon, 
while golden hilt and steel blade bide together on my falchion. 1 
eommanded her not to follow us to the field, and yet methought 
I saw her in her page’s attire amongst the rear of the com- 
batants.” 

“ You must seek elsewhere for the person in whose fate you 
are so deeply interested,” said the Abbot ; “ and at present I will 
pray of your knighthood to inquire concerning her at the church, 
in which all our more defenceless vassals have taken refuge. It 
is my advice to you, that you also abide by the horns of the altar; 
and. Sir Piercie Shafton,” he added, “ be of one thing secure, 
that if you come to hai’m, it will involve the whole of this brothcr- 
liood ; for never, I trust, will the meanest of us buy safety at the 


THE MONASTERY. 341 

expense of surrendering a friend or a guest. Leave us, niy son, 
and may God be your aid !” 

When Sir Piercie Shafton had departed, and tire Abbot was 
about to betake himself to his own cell, he was surprised by an 
unknown person anxiously requiring a conference, who, being 
admitted, proved to be no other than Henry Warden. The 
Abbot started as he entered, and exclaimed angrily, — “ Ha ! are 
the few hours that fate allows him who may last wear the mitre 
of this hovise, not to be excused from the intrusion of heresy ? 
Dost thou come,” he said, “ to enjoy the hopes which fate holds 
out to thy demented and accursed sect, to see the besom of 
destruction sweep away the pride of old religion — to deface our 
shrines — to mutilate and lay waste the bodies of our benefactors, 
as well as their sepulchres — to destroy the pinnacles and carved 
work of God’s house, and our Lady’s *” 

“ Peace, William Allan !” said the Protestant preacher, with 
dignified composure ; “ for none of these purposes do T come. I 
would have these stately shrines deprived of the idols which, no 
longer simply regarded as the effigies of the good and the wise, 
have become the objects of foul idolatry. 1 would otherwise 
have its ornaments subsist, unless as they arc, or may be, a snare 
to the souls of men ; and especially do I condemn those ravages 
which have been made by the heady fury of the people, stung 
into zeal against will-worship by bloody persecution. Against 
such wanton devastations I lift my testimony.” 

“ Idle distinguisher that thou art !” said the Abbot Eustace, 
interrupting him ; “ what signifies the pretext under which thou 
dost despoil the house of God ? and why at this present emergence 
wilt thou insult the master of it by thy ill-omened presence 

“ Thou art unjust, William Allan,” said Warden ; “ but T am 
not the less settled in my resolution. Thou hast protected me 
some time since at the hazard of thy rank, and what I know thou 
boldest still dearer, at the risk of thy reputation Avith thine own 
sect. Our party is now uppermost, and, believe me, I have come 
down the valley, in Avhich thou didst quarter me for sequestra- 
tion’s sake, simply with the wish to keep my engagements to 
thee.” 

“ Ay,” answered the Abbot, “ and it may be, that my listening 
to that worldly and infirm compassion which pleaded with me for 
thy life, is now avenged by this impending judgment. Heaven 
hath smitten, it may be, the erring shepherd, and scattered the 
flock.” 

“ Think better of the Divine judgments,” said Warden. “ Not 
for thy sins, which are those of thy blinded education and cir- 
cumstances ; not for thine OAvn sins, William Allan, art thou 
stricken, but for the accumulated guilt Avhich thy mis-named 
church hath accumulated on her head, and those of her votaries, 
by the errors and corruptions of ages.” 

* Now, by my sure belief in the Rock of Peter,” said the 


THE MONASTERV. 


342 

Abbot, “ thou dost rekindle the last spark of human indignation 
for which my bosom has fuel — I thought I might not again have 
felt the impulse of earthly passion, and it is thy voice which once 
more calls me to the expression of human anger ! yes, it is thy 
voice that comest to insult me in my hour of sorrow, with these 
blasphemous accusations of that church which hath kept the 
light of Christianity alive from the times of the Apostles till 
now.” 

“ From the times of the Apostles 1” said tlie preacher, eagerly. 

NegatuTy GuUelme Allan — the primitive church differed as 
much from that of Rome, as did light from darkness, which, did 
time permit, I should speedUy prove. And worse dost thou judge, 
in saying, I come to insult thee in thy hour of affliction, being here, 
God wot, with the Christian wish of fulfilling an engagement I had 
made to my host, and of rendering myself to thy will while it had 
yet power to exercise aught upon me, and if it might so be, to 
mitigate in thy behalf the rage of the victors whom God hath sent 
as a scourge to thy obstinacy.” 

I will none of thy intercession,” said the Abbot, sternly ; 
“ the dignity to which the church has exalted me, never should 
have swelled my bosom more proudly in the time of the highest 
prosperity, than it doth at this crisis — I ask nothing of thee, but 
the assurance that my lenity to thee hath been the means of per- 
verting no soul to Satan, that I have not given to the wolf any of 
the stray lambs whom the Great Shepherd of souls had intrusted 
to my charge.” 

“ William Allan,” answered the Pi’otestant, “ I will be sincere 
with thee. What I promised I have kept — I have withheld 
my voice from speaking even good things. But it has pleased 
Heaven to call the maiden Mai’y Avenel to a better sense of faith 
than thou and all the disciples of Rome can teach. Her I have 
aided with my humble power — I have extricated her from the 
machinations of evil spirits, to which she and her house were 
exposed during the blindness of their Romish superstition, and, 
praise be to my Master, I have not reason to fear she will again 
be caught in t% snares.” 

"Wretched man!” said the Abbot, unable to suppress his 
rising indignation, " is it to the Abbot of Saint Mary’s that you 
boast having misled the soul of a dweller in Our Lady’s Halidome 
into the paths of foul error and damning heresy! — Thou dost 
urge me. Well wood, beyond what it becomes me to bear, and 
movest me to employ the few moments of power I may yet 
possess, in removing from the face of the earth one, whose 
qualities given by God, have been so utterly perverted as thine to 
the service of Satan.” 

" Do thy pleasure,” said tlie preacher ; " thy vain wrath shall 
not prevent my doing my duty to advantege thee, where it may 
be done without neglecting my higher call. I go to the Earl of 
Murray.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


343 

Their conference, which was advancing fast into bitter dispu- 
tation, was here intennipted by the deep and sullen toll of the 
largest and heaviest bell of the Convent, a sound famous in the 
chronicles of the Community, for dispelling of tempests, and 
putting to flight demons, but which now only announced danger, 
without affording any means of warding against it. Hastily 
repeating his orders, that all the brethren should attend in the 
choir, arrayed for solemn procession, the Abbot ascended to the 
battlements of tlie lofty Monastery, by his own ])rivate staircase, 
and there met the Sacristan, who had been in tlie act of directing 
the tolling of the huge bell, which fell under his charge. 

It is the last time I shall discharge mine office, most vene- 
rable Father and Loi’d,” said he to the Abbot, ‘^for yonder come 
the Philistines ; but I would not that the large bell of Saint Mary’s 
.should sound for the last time, otherwise than in true and full 
tone — I have been a sinful man for one of our holy profession,” 
added he, looking upward, yet may I imesume to say, not a bell 
hatli sounded out of tune from the tower of the house, while 
Father Philip had the superintendence of the chime and the 
belfry.” 

The Abbot, without reply, cast his eyes towards the path, which, 
winding around the mountain, descends upon Kennaquhair, from 
the south-east. He beheld at a distance a cloud of dust, and 
heard the neighing of many horses, while the occasional sparkle 
of the long line of spears, as they came downwards into the valley, 
announced that the band came thither in ai’ms. 

Shame on my w’eakness !” said Abbot Eustace, dashing 
the tears from his eyes ; “ my sight is too much dimmed to 
observe their motions — look, my son Edward,” for his favourite 
novice had again joined him, “ and tell me what ensigns they 
bear.” 

“ They are Scottish men, when all is done,” exclaimed Edward 
— ‘‘I see the white crosses — it may be the Western Borderers, 
or Fernieherst and his clan.” 

‘^Look at the banner,” said the Abbot ; “tell me what are the 
blazonries ?” 

“ The arms of Scotland,” said Edward, “ the lion and its tres 
sure, quartered, as I think, with three cushions — Can it be the 
royal standard ?” 

‘‘ Alas ! no,” said the Abbot, ‘^it is that of the Earl of Murray. 
He hath assumed with his new conquest the badge of the valiant 
Randolph, and hath dropt from his hereditary coat tlie bend whicli 
indicates his own base birth — would to God he may not have 
blotted it also from his memory, and aim as well at possessing 
the name, as the power, of a king.” 

“ At least, my father,” said Edward, “ he will secure us from 
the \dolence of the Southron.” 

“ Ay, my son, as tlie shepherd secures a silly lamb from the 
wolf, which he destines in due time to his own banquet. Oh my 


THE MONASTERY. 


344 

son, evil days are on us ! A breach has been made in the walls 
of our sanctuary — thy brother hath fallen from the faith. Such 
news brought my last secret intelligence — MuiTay has already 
spoken of rewarding his services with the hand of Mary Avenel.” 

“ Of Mary Avenel !” said the novice tottering towards and 
grasping hold of one of the carved pinnacles which adorned the 
proud battlement. 

“ Ay, of Mary Avenel, my son, who has also abjured the faith 
of her fathers. Weep not, my Edward, w'eep not, my beloved 
son ! or weep for their apostasy, and not for their union — Bless 
God, who hath called thee to himself, out of the tents of wicked- 
ness ; but for the grace of Our Lady and Saint Benedict thou 
also hadst been a castaway.” 

“I endeavour, my father,” said Edward, “I endeavour to 
forget ; but what I would now blot from my memory has been 
the thought of all my former life — Murray dare not forward a 
match so unequal in birth.” 

‘‘ He dares do what suits his purpose — The Castle of Avenel 
is strong, and needs a good castellan, devoted to his service ; as 
for the difference of their birth, he will mind it no more than he. 
would mind defacing the natural regularity of the ground, were 
it necessary he should erect upon it military lines and intreuch- 
ments. But do not droop for that — awaken thy soul within thee, 
my son. Think you part with a vain vision, an idle dream, 
nursed in solitude and inaction. — I w’eep not, yet what am I now 
like to lose ? — Look at these towers, where saints dwelt, and 
where heroes have been buried — Think that I, so briefly called 
to preside over the pious flock, which has dwelt here since the 
first light of Christianity, may be this day written down the last 
father of this holy community — Come, let us descend, and meet 
our fate. I see them approach near to the village.” 

The Abbot descended, the novice cast a glance around him ; 
yet the sense of the danger impending over the stately structure, 
with which he was now united, was unable to banish the recollec- 
tion of Mary Avenel. — “His brother’s bride!” he pulled the 
cowl over his face, and followed his Superior. 

The whole bells of the Abbey now added their peal to the 
death-toll of the lai’gest which had so long sounded. The monks 
wept and prayed as they got themselves into the order of their 
procession for the last time, as seemed but too probable. 

“ It is well our Father Boniface hath retired to the inland,” 
said Father Philip; “he could never have put over this chiy — it 
would have broken his heart !” 

“ God be with the soul of Abbot Ingclram !” said old Father 
Nicholas, “ thei’e were no such doings in his days. — They say 
we are to be put forth of the cloisters ; and how I am to live 
any where else than where I have lived for these seventy years, 
I wot not — the best is, that I have not long to live any where.” 

^ A few moments after this the great gate of the Abbey was flung 


THE MONASTERY. 


345 

open, and the procession moved slowly forward from beneath its 
huge and richly adorned gateway. Cross and banner, pix and 
chalice, shrines containing relics, and censers steaming with 
incense, preceded and were intermingled with the long and solemn 
array of the brotherhood, in their long black gowns and cowls, 
W'ith their white scapularies hanging over them, the various officers 
of the convent each displaying his proper badge of office. In the 
centre of the procession came the Abbot, surrounded and sup- 
ported by his chief assistants. He was dressed in his habit of 
high solemnity, and appeared as much unconcerned as if he had 
been taking his usual part in some ordinary ceremony. After 
him came the inferior persons of the convent; the novices in their 
albs or white dresses, and the lay brethren distinguished by their 
beards, which were seldom worn by the Fathers. Women and 
children, mixed with a few men, came in the rear, bewailing the 
apprehended desolation of their ancient sanctuary. They moved, 
however, in order, and restrained the marks of their sorrow to a 
low wailing sound, which rather mingled with than inteiTupted 
the measured chant of the monks. 

In this order the procession entered the market-place of the 
village of Kennaquhair, which was then, as now, distinguished by 
an ancient cross of curious workmanship, the gift of some former 
monarch of Scotland. Close by the cross, of much greater anti- 
quity, and scarcely less honoured, was an immensely large oak- 
tree, which perhaps had witnessed the -worship of the Druids, ere 
the stately Monastery to which it adjoined had raised its spires in 
honour of the Christian faith. Like the Bentang-tree of the 
African villages, or the Plaistow-oak mentioned in White’s 
Natural History of Selborne, this tree was the rendezvous of the 
villagers, and regarded -with peculiar veneration ; a feeling com- 
mon to most nations, and which perhaps may be ti’aced up to the 
remote period when the patriarch feasted the angels under the 
oak at Mamre.* 

The monks formed themselves each in their due place around 
the cross, wdiile under the ruins of the aged tree crowded the old 
and the feeble, with others who felt the common alarm. When 
they had thus arranged themselves, there was a deep and solemn 
pause. The monks stilled their chant, the lay populace hushed 
their lamentations, and all awaited in terror and silence the arrival 
of those heretical forces, whom they had been so long taught to 
regard with fear and trembling. 

A distant trampling was at length heard, and the glance of 
spears was seen to shine through the trees above the village. 
The sounds increased, and became more thick, one close con- 
tinuous rushing sound, in which the tread of hoofs was mingled 
with the ringing of armour. The horsemen soon appeared at the 
principal enti-arice which leads into the irregular square or 

« It is scarcely necessary to say, that in Melrose, tli<' prototype of Kennn* 
quliaii’, no sucli oak ever existed. 


THE MONASTERY. 


.346 

market-place which forms the centre of the village. They entered 
two by two, slowly, and in the greatest wder. The van continued 
to move on, riding round the open space, until they had attained 
the utmost point, and then turning their horses’ heads to the 
street, stood fast ; their companions followed in the same order, 
until the whole market-place was closely surrounded with soldiers ; 
and the files who followed, making the same manoeuvi’e, formed 
an inner line within those who had first arrived, until the place 
was begirt with a quadruple file of horsemen closely drawn up. 
There was now a pause, of which the Abbot availed himself, by 
commanding the l)rotherhood to raise the solemn chant De pro- 
fundis clamavi. He looked around the armed ranks, to see what 
impression the solemn sounds made on them. All were silent, 
but the brows of some had an expression of contempt, and almost 
all the rest bore a look of indilference ; their course had been too 
long decided to permit past feelings of enthusiasm to be anew 
awakened by a procession or by a hymn. 

" Their hearts are hardened,” said the Abbot to himself in 
dejection, but not in despair ; “ it remains to see whether those of 
their leaders are equally obdurate.” 

The leaders, in the meanwhile, were advancing slowly, and 
Murray, with Morton, rode in deep conversation before a chosen 
band of their most distinguished followers, amongst whom came 
Halbert Glendinning. But the preacher Henry Warden, who, 
upon leaving the Monastery, had instantly joined them, was the 
only person admitted to their conference. 

“ You are determined, then,” said Morton to Murray, “ to give 
the heiress of Avenel, wdth all her pretensions, to this nameless 
and obscure young man ?” 

‘‘Hath not Warden told you,” said Murray, “that they 
have been bred together, and are lovers from their youth 
upward ?” 

“ And that they are both,” said Warden, “ by means which 
may be almost termed miraculous, rescued from the delusions of 
Rome, and brought within the pale of the true church. My resi- 
dence at Glendearg hath made me well acquainted with these 
things. Ill would it beseem my habit and my calling, to thrust 
myself into match-making and giving in marriage, but worse were 
it in me to see your lordships do needless wTong to the feelings 
wliich are proper to our nature, and which, being indulged 
honestly and under the restraints of religion, become a pledge of 
domestic quiet here, and future happiness in a better world. I 
say, that you will do ill to rend tliose ties asunder, and to give 
this maiden to the kinsman of Lord Morton, though Lord INIor- 
ton’s Idnsman he be.” 

“ These are fair reasons, my Lord of Murray,'* said Morton, 
“ why you should refuse me so simple a boon as to bestow tliis 
silly damsel upon young Bennygask. Speak out plainly, my 
lord ; say you would rather see the Castle of Avenel in the iiands 


THE MONASTERY. 347 

of one who owes his name and existence solely to your fa voui’, 
than in the power of a Douglas, and of my Idnsman.” 

“ My Lord of Morton,” said Murray, “ I have done nothing in 
this matter which should aggrieve you. This young man Glen- 
dinning has done me good service, and may do me more. My 
promise was in some degree passed to him, and that while JuUan 
Avenel was alive, when aught beside the maiden’s lily hand would 
have been hard to come by ; whereas you never thought of such 
an alliance for your kinsman, till you saw Julian lie dead yonder 
on the field, and knew his land to be a waif free to the first who 
could seize it. Come, come, my lord, you do less than justice to 
your gallant kinsman, in wishing him a bride bred up under the 
milk-pail ; for this girl is a peasant wench in all but the acci- 
dent of birth. I thought you had more deep respect for the 
honour of the Douglasses.” 

“ The honour of the Douglasses is safe in my keeping,” answered 
Morton, haughtily ; “ that of other ancient families may suffer as 
well as the name of Avenel, if rustics are to be matched with the 
blood of our ancient barons.” 

“ This is but idle talking,” answered Lord Murray ; “ in times 
like these we must look to men, and not to pedigi-ees. Hay was 
but a rustic before the battle of Loncarty — the bloody yoke 
actually dragged the plough ere it was blazoned on a crest by the 
herald. Times of action make princes into peasants, and boors 
into barons. All families have sprung from one mean man ; and 
it is well if they have never degenerated from his virtue who 
raised them first from obscurity.” 

“ My Lord of Murray will please to except the house of 
Douglas,” said Morton, haughtily ; “ men have seen it in the tree, 
but never in the sapling — have seen it in the stream, but never 
in the fountain.* In the earliest of our Scottish annals, the 
Black Douglas was powerful and distinguished as now.” 

“ I bend to the honours of the house of Douglas,” said Mun’ay, 
somewhat ii*onically ; “ I am conscious we of the Royal House 
have little right to compete with them in dignity — What though 
we have worn crowms and carried sceptres for a few generations, 
if our genealogy moves no farther back than to the humble 
Alanus Dapifer !” f 

Morton’s cheek reddened as he was about to reply ; but Henry 
Warden availed Inmself of the liberty which the Protestant clergy 
long possessed, and exerted it to inteiTupt a discussion which was 
becoming too eager and personal to be friendly. 

‘‘ My lords,” he said, “ I must be bold in discharguig the duty 
of my Master. It is a shame and scandal to hear two nobles, 
whose hands have been so forward in the work of reformation, 
fall into digcord about such vain folhes as now occupy your 
thoughts. Bethink you how long you have thought witli one 

♦ See Note N. Pedigree of the Douglas Family. 
t See Note O. Pedigree of the Stewart Family. 


THE MONASTERY. 


348 

mind, seen with one eye, heard with one car, confirmed by your 
union the congregation of the Church, appalled by your joint 
authority the congregation of Anti-Christ ; and will you now fall 
into discord, about an old decayed castle and a few barren hills, 
about the loves and lildngs of an humble spearman, and a damsel 
bred in the same obscurity, or about the still vainer questions of 
idle genealogy 

“ The good man hath spoken right, noble Douglas,” said Murray, 
reaching him his hand, “ our union is too essential to the good 
cause to be broken off upon such idle terms of dissention. I am 
fixed to gratify Glendinning in this matter — my promise is passed. 
The wars, in which I have had my share, have made many a 
family miserable ; I will at least try if I may not make one happy. 
There are maids and manors enow in Scotland. — I promise you, 
my noble ally, that young Bennygask shall be richly wived.” 

“ My lord,” said Warden, “ you speak nobly, and like a Chris- 
tian. Alas ! this is a land of hatred and bloodshed — let us not 
chase from thence the few traces that remain of gentle and 
domestic love. — And be not too eager for wealth to thy noble 
kinsman, ray Lord of Morton, seeing contentment in the mari’iagc 
state no way depends on it.” 

“ If you allude to my family misfortune,” said Morton, whose 
Countess, wedded by him for her estate and honoui's, was insane 
in her mind, “ the habit you wear, and the liberty, or rather 
license, of your profession, protect you from my resentment.” 

“ Alas ! my lord,” replied Warden, “how quick and sensitive 
is our self-love ! When, pressing forward in our high calling, 
we point out the errors of the Sovereign, who praises our boldness 
more than the noble Morton \ But touch we upon his own sore, 
which most needs lancing, and he shrinks from the faithful chirur- 
geon in fear and impatient anger !” 

“ Enough of this, good and reverend sir,” said Murray ; “ you 
transgress the prudence yourself recommended even now. — We 
are now close upon the village, and the proud Abbot is come forth 
at the head of his hive. Thou hast pleaded well for him, Warden, 
otherwise I had taken this occasion to pull down the nest, and 
chase away the rooks.” 

“ Nay, but do not so,” said Warden ; “ this William Allan, 
whom they call the Abbot Eustatius, is a man whose misfortunes 
would more prejudice our cause than his prosperity. You cannot 
inflict more than he will endure ; and the more that he is made to 
bear, the higher will be the influence of his talents and his courage. 
In his conventual throne, he will be but coldly looked on — 
disliked, it may be, and envied. But turn his crucifix of gold into 
a crucifix of wood — let him travel through the land, an oppressed 
and impoverished man, and his patience, his eloquence, and 
learning, will win more hearts from the good cause, than all the 
mitred abbots of Scotland ha^e been able to make prey of during 
the last hundred years.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


34D 


Tush ! tush ! man,” said Morton, “ the revenues of the Hali- 
dome will bring more men, spears, and horses, into the field in 
one day, than his preaching in a whole lifetime. These are not 
the days of Peter the Hermit, when monks could march armies 
from England to Jerusalem j but gold and good deeds will still do 
as much or more than ever. Had Julian Avenel had but a score 
or two more men this morning. Sir John Foster had not missed 
a worse welcome. I say, confiscating the monk’s revenues is 
drawing his fang-teeth.” 

We will surely lay him under contribution,” said Murray; 
“ and, moreover, if he desires to remain in his Abbey, he will do 
well to produce Piercie Shafton.” 

As he thus spoke, they entered the market-place, distinguished 
by their complete armour and their lofty plumes, as well as by 
the number of followers bearing their colours and badges. Both 
these powerful nobles, but more especially Murray, so nearly 
allied to the crown, had at that time a retinue and household not 
much inferior to that of Scottish royalty. As they advanced into 
the market-place, a pursuivant, pressing forward from their train, 
addressed the monks in these words: — “The Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s is commanded to appear before the Earl of Murray.” 

“ The Abbot of Saint Mary’s,” said Eustace, “ is, in the patri- 
mony of his Convent, superior to every temporal lord. Let the 
Earl of Murray, if he seeks him, come himself to his presence.” 

On receiving this answer, Murray smiled scornfully, and, dts- 
mounting from his lofty saddle, he advanced, accompanied by 
Morton, and followed by others, to the body of monks assembled 
around the cross. There was an appearance of shrinking among 
them at the approach of the heretic lord, so dreaded and so 
powerful. But the Abbot, casting on them a glance of rebuke 
and encouragement, stepped forth from their ranks like a coura- 
geous leader, when he sees that his personal valour must be dis- 
played to revive the drooping courage of his followers. “ Lord 
James Stewart,” he said, “ or Earl of Murray, if that be thy 
title, I, Eustatius, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, demand by what right 
you have filled our peaceful village, and surrounded our brethren, 
with these bands of armed men ? If hospitality is sought, we have 
never refused it to courteous asking — if violence be meant against 
peaceful churchmen, let us know at once the pretext and the 
object 1” 

Sir Abbot,” said Murray, “ your language would better have 
become another age, and a presence inferior to ours. W'e come 
not here to reply to your interrogations, but to demand of you 
why you have broken the peace, collecting your vassals in arms, 
and convocating the Queen’s lieges, whereby many men have 
been slain, and much trouble, perchance breach of amity witli 
England, is likely to arise 1” 

“ Lupus in fahula,’’ answered the Abbot, scornfully. “ The 
wolf accused the sheep of muddying the stream when he drank iu 


350 


THE MONASTERY. 


it above her — but it served as a pretext for devouring her. Con- 
vocate the Queen’s lieges ! I did so to defend the Queen’s land 
against foreigners. I did but my duty ; and I regret I had not 
the means to do it more effectually.” 

“ And was it also a part of your duty to receive and harbour 
the Queen of England’s rebel and traitor ; and to inflame a war 
betwixt England and Scotland ?” said MuiTay. 

“ In my younger days, my lord,” answered the Abbot, with 
the same intrepidity, “ a war with England was no such dreaded 
matter ; and not merely a mitred abbot, bound by his rule to 
shew hospitality and afford sanctuary to all, but the poorest 
Scottish jleasant, would have been ashamed to have pleaded fear 
of England as the reason for shutting his door against a perse- 
cuted exile. But in those olden days, the English seldom saw 
the face of a Scottish nobleman, save tlirough the bars of his 
visor.” 

“ Monk !” said the Earl of Morton, sternly, “ this insolence 
will little avail thee ; the days are gone by when Rome’s priests 
were permitted to brave noblemen with impunity. Give us up 
this Piercie Shafton, or by my father’s crest I will set thy Abbey 
in a bright flame !” 

“ And if thou dost. Lord of Morton, its rums will tumble above 
the tombs of thine own ancestors. Be the issue as God wills, the 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s gives up no one whom he hath promised 
to protect.” 

“ Abbot !” said Murray, “ bethink thee ere we are driven to 
deal roughly — the hands of these men,” he said, pointing to the 
soldiers, “ will make \vild work among shrines and cells, if we 
are compelled to undertake a search for this Englishman.” 

“ Ye shall not need,” said a voice from the crowd ; and, 
advancing gracefully before the Earls, the Euphuist flung from 
him the mantle in which he was muffled. “ Via the cloud that 
shadowed Shafton !” said he ; “ behold, my lords, the Knight of 
Wilverton, who spares you the guilt of violence and sacrilege.” 

“ I protest before God and man against any infraction of the 
privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, “ by an attempt to im- 
pose violent hands upon the person of this noble knight. If there 
be yet spirit in a Scottish Parliament, we will make you hear oi 
this elsewhere, my lords !” 

“ Spare your threats,” said Murray; ‘^it may be, my purpose 
with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost suppose — 
Attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue or no rescue.” 

“ I yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “ reserving my right to 
defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton to single duel, 
even as one gentleman may demand satisfaction of another.” 

“ You shall not want those who will answer your challenge. 
Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “ without aspiring to men above 
thine own degree.” 

“ And where am I to find these superlative champions,” said 


THE MONASTERY. 


351 

tlie English knight, “ whose blood runs more pure than that of 
Piercie Shafton 

“ Here is a flight for you, my lord !” said Murray. 

“ As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth Bolton, 
who had now approached to the front of the party. 

" Who dared to say that word ?” said the Euphuist, his face 
crimson with rage. 

“ Tut ! man,” said Bolton, make the best of it, tliy mother’s 
father w'as but a tailor, old Overstitch of Holderness — Why, 
what ! because thou art a misproud bird, and despisest thine own 
natural lineage, and rufilest in unpaid silks and velvets, and 
keepest company with gallants and cutters, must we lose our 
memory for that? Thy mother, Moll Overstitch, was the 
prettiest wench in those parts — she was w'edded by wild Shafton 
of Wilverton, who, men say, was a-ldn to the Piercie on the 
wrong side of the blanket.” 

“ Help the knight to some strong waters,” said Morton ; “ he 
hath fallen from such a height, that he is stunned with the 
tumble.” 

In fact. Sir Piercie Shafton looked like a man stricken by a 
thunderbolt, while, notwithstanding the seriousness of the scene 
hitherto, no one of those present, not even the Abbot himself, 
could refrain from laughing at the rueful and mortified expression 
of his face. 

“ Laugh on,” he said at length, “ laugh on, my masters, 
shrugging his shoulders ; “ it is not for me to be offended — yet 
would I know full fain from tliat squire who is laughing with 
the loudest, how he had discovered this unhappy blot in an other- 
wise spotless lineage, and for what purpose he hath made it 
known ?” 

“ I make it known ?” said Halbert Glendinning, in astonishment, 
— for to him this pathetic appeal was made, — ‘‘I never heard 
the thing till this moment.” * 

“ Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from thee ?” said 
the knight, in increasing amazement. 

Not I, by Heaven !” said Bolton ; “ I never saw the youth in 
my life before.’'’ 

“ But you hate seen him ere now, my worthy master,” said 
Dame Glendinning, bursting in her turn from the crowd. “ My 
son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom we owe life, and the 
means of preserving it — if he be prisoner, as seems most likely, 
use thine interest with these noble lords to be kind to the widow’s 
friend.” 

“ What, my Dame of the Glen !” said Bolton, “ thy brow is 
more withered, as well as mine, since we met last, but thy tongue 
holds the touch better than my arm. This boy of thine gave me 
the foil sorely this morning. The Brown Varlet has turned as 
stout a trooper as I prophesied ; and where is White Head ?” 

• bee Note P. The White Spirit. 


352 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Alas !” said the mother, looking down, “ Edward has talccn 
orders, and become a monk of this Abbey.” 

A monk and a soldier ! — Evil trades both, my good dame. 
Better have made one a good master fashioner, like old Overstitch, 
of Holderness. I sighed when I envied you the two bonny 
children, but I sigh not now to call eitlier the monk or the soldier 
mine own. The soldier dies in the field, tlie monk scarce lives in 
the cloister.” 

“ My deai’est mother,” said Halbert, where is Edward — can 
I not speak with him ?” 

“He has just left us for the present,” said Father Philip, 
“ upon a message from the Lord Abbot.” 

“ And Mai’y, my dearest mother said Halbert. — Mary 
Avenel was not far distant, and the three were soon withdrawn 
from the crowd, to hear and relate their various chances of 
fortune. 

While the subordinate personages thus disposed of themselves, 
the Abbot held serious discussion with the two Earls, and, pai’tly 
yielding to their demands, partly defending himself with skill and 
eloquence, w'as enabled to make a composition for his Convent, 
which left it provisionally in no worse situation than before. The 
Earls were the more reluctant to drive matters to extremity, 
since he protested, that if urged beyond what his conscience would 
comply with, he would throw the whole lands of the ^lonastery 
into the Queen of Scotland’s hands, to be disposed of at her plea- 
sure. This would not have answered the views of the Earls, who 
were contented, for the time, with a moderate sacrifice of money 
and lands. Matters being so far settled, the Abbot became 
anxious for the fate of Sir Piercie Shafton, and implored mercy 
in his behalf. 

“ He is a coxcomb,” he said, “ my lords, but he is a generou.s, 
though a vain fool ; and it is my firm belief you have this day 
done him more pain than if you had run a poniard into him.” 

“ Run a needle into him you mean. Abbot,” said the Earl of 
tsiorton ; “ by mine honour, I thought this grandson of a fashioner 
of doublets was descended from a crowned head at least !” 

“ I hold with the Abbot,” said Murray ; “ there were little 
honour in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he shall be sent 
where he can do her no injury. Our pursuivant and Bolton shall 
escort him to Dunbar, and ship him off for Flanders. — But soft, 
here he comes, and leading a female, as I think.” 

“ Lords and others,” said the English knight with great solem- 
nity, “ make way for the Lady of Piercie Shafton — a secret which 
I listed not to make known, till fate, which hath betrayed what I 
vainly strove to conceal, makes me less desirous to hide that wliich 
V now announce to you.” 

“ It is Mysie Happer, the Miller’s daughter, on my life !” said 
Tibb Tacket. “ I thought the pride of these Piercies would have 
a fii,’.” 


THi=: ilOXASTERV. 


353 


‘‘It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” said the knight, “ whose 
merits towards her devoted servant deserved higher ranli than he 
had to bestow/’ 

“ I suspect, though,” said Murray, “ that we should not have 
neard of the Miller’s daughter being made a lady, had not the 
knight pi’oved to be the grandson of a tailor.” 

“ My lord,” said Piercie^ Shafton, “ it is poor valour to strike 
him that cannot smite again ; and I hope you will consider what 
is due to a prisoner by the law of arms, and say nothing more on 
this odious subject. When I am once more mine own man, I 
will find a new road to digir ty.” 

‘‘ Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton. 

“ Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,” said Murray; “besides, 
we have other matter in hand — T must see Warden wed Glen- 
dinning with Mary Avenel, and put him in possession of his wife’s 
castle without delay. It will be best done ere our forces leave 
these parts.” 

“ And I,” said the Miller, “ have the like grist to grind ; for 1 
hope some one of the good fathers will wed my wench with her 
gay bridegroom.” 

“ It needs not,” said Shafton ; “ the ceremonial hath been 
solemnly performed.” 

“It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the Miller ; 
“ it is always best to be sure, as I say when I chance to take 
multure twice from the same meal-sack.” 

“ Stave the miller oft’ him,” said Murray, “ or he will worry 
him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the hospitality of the 
Convent ; I move we should repair hither. Sir Piercie and all of 
us. I must learn to know the Maid of Avenel — to-morrow I 
must act as her father — All Scotland shall see how Murray can 
i-eward a faithful servant.” 

Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Abbot, and 
took up their temporary abode in a house of the village, where 
next day their hands were united by the Protestant preacher in 
presence of the two Earls. On the same day Piercie Shafton and 
liis bride departed, under an escort which was to conduct him to 
the sea-side, and see him embark for the Low Countries. Early 
on the following morning the bands of the Earls were under 
march to the Castle of Avenel, to invest the young bridegroom 
with the property of his wife, which was surrendered to them 
without opposition. 

But not without those omens which seemed to mark every 
remarkable event Avhich befell the fated family, did Mary take 
possession of the ancient castle of her forefathers. The same 
warlike form which had appeared more than once at Glendearg, 
was seen by Tibb Packet and Martin, who returned with their 
young mistress to partake her altered fortunes. It glided before 
the cavalcade as they advanced upon the long causeway, paused 
at each drawbridge and ftourished its hand, as in triumph, as it 
X, z 


THE MONASTERY 


S54 

dieappeared under the gloomy archway, which was surmounted 
by the insignia of the house of Avenel. The tw'o trusty servants 
made their vision only known to Dame Glendiuning, who, with 
much pride of heart, had accompanied her son to see him take 
his rank among the barons of the land. “ Oh, my dear bairn !” 
she exclaimed, when she heard the tale, “ the castle is a grand 
place to be sure, but I wish ye dinna a’ desire to be back in the 
quiet braes of Glendearg before the play be played out.” But 
tliis natural reflection, springing from maternal anxiety, was soon 
forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task of examining and 
admiring the new habitation of her son. 

While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden himself 
and his sorrows in the paternal Tower of Glendearg, where every 
object w'as full of matter for bitter reflection. The Abbot’s kind- 
ness had despatched him thither upon pretence of placing some 
papers belonging to the Abbey in safety and secrecy; but in 
reality to prevent his witnessing the triumph of his brother. 
Through the deserted apartments, the scene of so many bitter 
reflections, the unhappy youth stalked hke a discontented ghost, 
conjuring up around him at every step new subjects for sorrow 
and for self-torment. Impatient, at length, of the state of irrita- 
tion and agonized recollection in which he found himself, he 
rushed out and walked hastily up the glen, as if to shake ofi* the 
load which hung upon his mind. The sun was setting when he 
reached the entrance of Corri-uan-shian, and the I’ecollectiou of 
what he had seen when he last visited that haunted ravine, burst 
on his mind. He was in a humour, however, rather to seek out 
danger than to avoid it. 

“ I will face this mystic being,” he said ; she foretold the 
fate which has w'rapt me in this dress, — I will know w’hether 
she has aught else to tell me of a life which cannot but be 
miserable.” 

He failed not to see the Wliite Spirit seated by her accustomed 
haunt, and singing in her usual low' and sweet tone. While she 
sung she seemed to look with sorrow on her golden zone, v/hich 
W'as now diminished to tlie fineness of a silken tiu’ead. 

“ Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 

Thou shalt seldom now be seen, 

With all thy glittering garlands bending. 

As to greet my slow descending, 

Startling the bewilder’d hind. 

Who sees thee wave without a wind. 

“ Farewell, Fountain I now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to ray song, 

While thy crystal bubbles glancing. 

Keep the time in mystic dancing. 

Rise and swell, are burst and lost. 

Like mortal schemes by fortune crost. 

“ The knot of fate at length is tied. 

The Churl is Lord, the Maid is bride. 


THE MONASTERY. 


355 


Vainly did my magic sleight 
Bend the lover from her sight ; 

Wither bush, and perish well, 

Fall’n is lofty Avenel!” 

The Viaion seemed to weep while she sung; and the words 
impressed on Edward a melancholy belief, that the alliance of 
Mary with his brother might be fatal to them both. 


Here terminates the First Part of the Benedictine’s Manuscript 
I have in vain endeavoured to ascertain the precise period of tiie 
story, as the dates cannot be exactly reconciled with tliose of the 
most accredited histories. But it is astonishing how careless the 
writers of Utopia are upon these important subjects. I observe 
tliat the learned Mr Laurence Templeton, in his late publication, 
entitled I vanhoe, has not only blessed the bed of Edward tlie 
Confessor with an offspring unluiown to history, with sundry 
other solecisms of the same kind, but has inverted the order of 
nature, and feasted his swine with acorns in the midst of summer. 
All that can be alleged by the warmest admirer of this author 
amounts to this, — that the circumstances objected to are just as 
true as the rest of the story; which appears to me (more especiallj 
in the matter of the acorns) to be a very imperfect defence, and 
that the author will do well to profit by Captain Absolute’s advice 
to his servant, and never tell him more lies than are indispensably 
necessary. 


SMD OF THJS nONAS'XXST 



NOT E S 


TO 


THE MONASTERY. 


Note A, p. 57 . Stawarth Bolton. 

Siawarth Bolton took h!s embroidered red cross from his barret-cap, end 
f»Utinp it itdo the loop of the boy’s bonnet, said, “ By this token, which all my 
people will 7-espect, you will be/reed/rom any importunity on the part of our 
forayers.” 

As gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of thinking and 
acting, so it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the civil war 1745-0'. 
a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to Rose Castle, the seat 
of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by the family of Squire Dacre of 
Cumberland. They demanded quarters, which of course were not to be ref^used 
to armed men of a strange attire and unknown language. But the domestic re- 
presented to the captain of the mountaineers, that the lady of the mansion had 
been just delivered of a daughter, and expressed her hope, that, under these cir- 
eumst.ances, his party would give as little trouble as possible. “ God foiibid,” 
said the gallant chief, “ that I or mine should be the means of adding to a lady’s 
inconvenience at such a time. May I request to see the infant ?” Tlie child was 
brought, and the Highlander, taking liis cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning 
it on the child’s breast, “ That will be a token,” he said, ” to any of »ur people 
who may come hither, that Donald M‘Donald of Kinloch-Moidart, has taken 
the family of Rose Castle under his protection.” Tlie lady who received in 
infancy this gage of Highland protection, is now Mary, Lady Clerk of Penny- 
cuik ; and on the 10th of June still wears the cockade which was pinned on her 
breast, with a white rose as a kindred decoration. 


NoteB, p. 63. The Fairies. 

It was deemed highly impi'udent to speak of the fair.es, when about to pass the 
places which they were supposed to haunt. 

This superstition continues to prevail, though one would suppose it must now 
be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an itinerant puppet show-man, 
who, disdaining to acknowledge the profession of Gines de Passamonte, called 
himself an artist from Vauxhall, brouglit a complaint of a sin^lar nature before 
the author, as Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The singular dexterity wkh which the 
show-man had exhibited the machinery of his little stage, had, upon a Selkirk 
fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of some mechanics of Galashiels. These men, 
from no worse motive that could be discovered than a thirst after knowledge 
beyond theirsphere, committed a burglary upon the barn in which tho puppets 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY, 


358 

had been consigned to repose, and carried them oif in the nook of their plaids, 
when returning from Selkirk to their own village. 

" Bat with the morning cool reflection came." 

The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that the 
whole troop were equally intractable ; they had also, perhaps, some apprehensions 
of the Rhadamanth of the district ; and, willing to be quit of their booty, they 
left the puppets seated in a grove by the side of the Ettrick, where they were 
sure to be touched by the first beams of the rising sun. Here a shepherd, who 
was on foot with sunrise to pen his master’s sheep on a field of turnips, to iiis 
utter astonishment, saw this train, profusely gay, sitting in the little grotto. His 
examination proceeded thus : — 

Sheriff. You saw these gay-looking things ? what did yeu think they were ? 

Shepherd. Ou, I am no that free to say what I might think they were. 

Sheriff. Come, lad, I must have a direct answer — who did you think they 
were ? 

Shepherd. Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind wha I might 
think they were. 

Sheriff. Come, come sir ! I ask you distinctly, did you think they were the 
fairies you saw ? 

Shepherd. Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was the Good 
Neighbours. 

Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and captious inha- 
bitants of fairy land. 


Note C, p. 79. Drawbridge at Bridge-end. 

A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the text, actually 
existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half above Melrose, called from the 
circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed in Gordon’s Iter Septentrionale : — 

“ In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile and a 
half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains of a curious 
oridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangular pillars, or rather 
towers, standing within the water, without any arches to join them. The middle 
one, which is the most entire, has a door towards the north, and I suppose, 
another opposite one towards the south, which I could not see without crossing 
the water. In the middle of this tower is a projection or cornice surrounding it : 
the whole is hollow from the door upwards, and now open at the top, near which 
is a small window. I was informed that not long ago a countryman and his 
family lived in this tower — and got his livelihood by laying out planks from 
pillar to pillar, and conveying passengers over the river. Whether this be 
ancient or modem, I know not ; but as it is singular in its kind, I have thought 
fit to exhibit it.” 

The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the author has 
often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting down the Tweed at 
night, for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light. Mr John Mercer of 
Bridge-end recollects, that about fifty years ago the pillars were visible above 
water; and the late Mr David Kyle of the George Inn, Melrose, told the 
author that he saw a stone taken from the river bearing this inscription ; — 

" I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede. 

Give an hundred markis of gowd sae need, 

To help to bigg my brigg ovrer IVeed.” 

Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom the 
bridge belonged. 


Note D, p. 107. SORNERS. 

To tome, in Scotland, is to exact free quarters against the will of the landlord. 
It is declared equivalent to theft, by a statute passed in the year 1445. The 
great chieftains oppressed the Monasteries very much by exactions of this nature. 
The community of Aberbrothwick complained of an Earl of Angus, I think, 
who was in the regular habit of visiting them once a-year, with a train of a 
thousand horse, and abiding till the whole winter provisions of the convent were 
exhausted. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


369 


Note E, p. 140. Macxarlanb’s Geese. 

A brood of wild-geese, which long frequented one of the uppermost islands in 
Loch-Lomond, called Inch-Tavoe, were supposed to have some mysterious 
connection with the ancient family of MacFarlane of that ilk, and it is sn’’ were 
never seen after the ruin and extinction of that house. The MacFarln- es had a 
house and garden upon that same island of Inch-Tavoe. Here James VI. was, 
on one occasion, regaled by the chieftain. His Majesty had been previously 
much amused by the geese pursuing each other on the Loch. But, when one 
which was brought to table, was found to be tough and ill fed, James observed, 
— “ that MacFarlane’s geese liked their play better than their meat,” a proverb 
which has been current ever since. 


Note F. p. 157. Epithets. 

There are many instances to be met with in the ancient dramas of this whimsi- 
cal and conceited custom of persons who formed an intimacy, distinguishing each 
other by some quaint epithet. In Every Man out of his Humour, there is a 
humorous debate upon names most lit to bind the relation bbtwixt Sogliardo and 
Cavaliero Shift, which ends by adopting those of Countenance and llesolution. 
What is more to the point is in the speech of Hedon, a voluptuary and a courtier 
in Cynthia's Revels. “ You know that I call Madam Philantia my Honour, 
and she calls me her Ambition. Now, when I meet her in the presence, anon, 
I will come to her and say, ‘ Sweet Honour, I have hitherto contented my sense 
with the lilies of your hand, and now I will taste the roses of your lip.’ To which 
she cannot but blushing answer, ‘ Nay, now you are too ambitious and then do 
I reply, “I cannot be too ambitious of Honour, sweet lady. Wilt not be 
good?’” — I think there is some remnant of this foppery preserved in masonic 
lodges, where each brother is distinguished by a name in the Lodge, signifying 
some abstract quality, as Discretion, or the like. See the poems of Gavin 
Wilson. 


Note G. p. 170. Rowland Yobke, and Stukely. 

“ Yorke,” says Camden, “ was a Londoner, a man of loose and dissolute 
behaviour, and desperately audacious — famous in his time amongst the common 
bullies and swaggerers, as being the first that, to the great admiration of many 
at his boldness, brought into England the bold and dangerous way of fencing 
with the rapier in duelling. Whereas, till that time, the English used to fight 
with long swords and bucklers, striking with the edge, and thought it no part of 
man eitlier to push or strike beneath the ^rdle. 

Having a command in the Low Countries, Yorke revolted to the Spaniards, 
and died miserably, poisoned, as was supposed, by his new allies. Three years 
afterwards, his bones were dug up and gibbeted by the command of the States of 
Holland. 

Thomas Stukely, another distinguished gallant of the time, was bred a mer- 
chant, being the son of a rich clothier in the west. He wedded the daughter and 
heiress of a wealthy alderman of London, named Curtis, after whose death he 
squandered the riches he thus acquired in all manner of extravagance. His wife, 
whose fortune supplied his waste, represented to him that he ought to make more 
of her. Stukely replied, “I will make as much of thee, believe me, as it is 
possible for any to do and he kept his word in one sense, having stripped her 
even of her wearing apparel, before he finally ran away from her. 

Having fled to Italy, he contrived to impose upon the Pope, with a plan of 
invading Ireland, for which he levied soldiers, and made some preparations , but 
ended by engaging himself and his troops in the service of King Sebastian of 
Portugal. He sailed with that prince on his fatal voyage to Barbary, and fell 
with him at the battle of Alcazar. 

Stukely, as one of the first gallants of the time, has had the honour to be 
chronicled in song, in Evans’ Old Ballads, vol. iii. edition 1810. His fate is also 
Introduced in a tragedy, by George Peel, as has been supposed, called the 
Battle of Alcazar, from which play Dryden is alleged to have taken the idea 
of Don Sebastian ; if so, it is surprising he omitted a character so congenial 
to King Charles the Second’s time, as the witty, brave, and profligate Thomas 
Stukely 


S60 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


Note II. p. 222. Avenel Castle. 

It is in v.ain to se-nrch near Melrose for any sucti castle as is here described 
The lakes at the head of the Yarrow, and those at the rise of the water of Ale, 
present no object of the kind. But in Yetholm Loch, (a romantic sheet of 
water, in the dry march, as it is called,) tlicre are the remains of a fortress 
called Lochside Tower, which, like the supposed Castle of Avenel, is built tipon 
an island, and connected with the land by a cabseway. It is much smaller than 
the Castle of Avenel is described, consisting only of a single ruinous tower. 


Note I. p. 237. Julian Avenel. 

If it were necessary to name a prototype for this brutal, licentious, and oniel 
Border chief, in an age which shewed but too many such, the Laird of Black 
Ormiston might be selected for that purpose. He was a friend and confident of 
Bothwell, and an agent in Henry Darnley’s murder. At his last stage, he 
wjus, like other great offenders, a seeming penitent ; and, as his confession bears, 
divers gentlemen and servants being in the chamber, he said, “ For God’s sake, 
sit down and pray for me, for I have been a great sinner otherwise,” (that is, 
besides his share in Harnley’s death,) “ for the which God is ibis day punishing 
me ; for of all men on the earth, I have been one of the proudest, and most high- 
minded, and most unclean of my body. But specially 1 have shed the innocent 
blood of one Michacd Hunter with my own hands. Alas, therefore ! because the 
said Michael, having me lying on my back, having a fork in his hand, might 
have slain me if he had pleased, and did it not, which of all things grieves me 
most in conscience. Also, in a rage, 1 hanged a poor man for a horse ; — with 
many other wicked deeds, for whilk I ask my God mercy. It is not marvel I 
Jiave been wicked, considering the wicked company that ever I have been in, but 
specially within the seven years by-past, in wliicli 1 never Siiw two good men or 
one good deed, but all kind of wickedness, and yet God would not suffer me to 
be lost.” — See the whole confession in the State Trials. 

Another worthy of the Borders, called Geordy Bourne, of somewhat subordi- 
nate rank, was a similar picture of profligacy. He had fallen into the hands of 
Sir Robert Carey, then Warden of the English East Marches, who gives the 
following account of his prisoner’s confession : — 

” When all things were quiet, and the w.atch set at night, after supper, about 
ten of the clock, I took one of my men’s liveries and put it about me, and took 
two other of my servants with me in their liveries ; and we three, as the Warden’s 
men, came to the Provost Marshal’s where Bourne was, and were let into his 
chamber. We sate down by him, .and told him that we were desirous to see him, 
because we lic.ard he w.as stout .and valiant, and true to his friend, and that we 
M'ore sorry our m.aster could not be moved to Siive his life. He voluntarily of 
himself said, that he bad lived long enough to do so many villainies as he had 
done ; and withal told us, that he had lain with above forty men’s wives, what in 
England what in Scotland ; and that he had killed seven Englishmen with his 
own b.ands, cruelly murdering them ; .and that he had spent liis whole time in 
whoring, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. He 
seemed to be very penitent, and mueh desired a minister for the comfort of his 
soul. We promised him to let our master know liis desire, who, we knew, would 
promptly grant it. We took leave of him ; and presently I took order that IVIr 
Selby, a very honest preacher, should go to him, and not stir from him till his 
execution the next morning; for after 1 h.ad heard his own confession, 1 was 
resolved no conditions should save his life, and so took order, that at the gates 
opening the next moniing, he should be earried to execution, which .accordingly 
was performed.” — Memoirs of Sir Robert Carey Earl of Monmouth. 


Note K. p. 253. ForPEny of the Sixteenth Century. 


Sir Piercie Shafton’s extreme love of dress was an attribute of the coxcombs of 
this period. The display made by tbeir forefathers was in the numbers of their 
retinue ; but as the actual influence of the nobility began to be restrained both in 
France and Engl.and by the increasing power of tiie crown, the indulgence of 
vanity in personal display becaipc more ijioniijiatc. There ate many allusions to 


NOTES TO THE MONASTEIlV. 36l 

this change of custom in Shakspeare and other dramatic writers, where the reader 
may find mention made of 

" Bonds enter’d into 

For gay apparel against the triumph day. 

Jonson informs us, that for the first entrance of a gallant, “ ’twere good you 
turned four or five hundred acres of your best land into two or three trunks of 
apparel.” — Every Man out of his Humour. 

in the Memorie of the Somerville family, a curious instance occurs of this 
fashionable species of extravagance. In the year 15.'i7, when James V. brought 
over his shortlived bride from France, the Lord Somerville of the day was so 
profuse in the expense of his apparel, that the money which he borrowed on the 
occasion was compensated by a perpetual annuity of threescore pounds Scottish, 
payable out of the barony of Carnwarth till doomsday, which was assigned by 
the creditor to Saint Magdalen’s Chapel. By this deep expense the Lord Somer- 
ville had rendered himself so glorious in apparel, that the King, who saw so 
brave a gallant enter the gate of Holyrood, followed by only two pages, called 
upon several of the courtiers to ascertain who "it could be who was so richly 
dressed and so slightly attended, and he was not recognized until he entered the 
presence chamber. “ You are very brave, my lord,” said the King, as ho 
received his homage; “but where are all your men and attendants r’ The 
Lord Somerville readily answered, “If it please your Majesty, here they arc,” 
pointing to the lace that was on his own and his pages’ clothes ; whereat the 
King laughed heartily, and having surveyed the finery more nearly, bade him 
have away with it all, and let him have his stout band of spears again. 

There is a scene in Jonson’s “ Every Man out of his Humour,” (Act IV. 
Scene 6,) in which a Euphuist of the time gives an account of the effects of .a 
duel on the clothes of himself and his opponent, and never departs a syllable 
from the catalogue of his wardrobe. We shall insert it in evidence that the fop- 
pery of our ancestors was not inferior to that of our own time. 

“ Fastidius. Good faith, signior, now you speak of a quarrel, I ’ll acquaint 
you with a difference that happened between a gallant and myself. Sir Puntar- 
volo. You know him if I should name him — Signior Luculento. 

“ Punt. Luculento 1 What inauspicious chance interposed itself to your two 
loves ? 

“Fast. Faith, sir, the same that sundered Agamemnon and great Thetis’ 
son ; but let the cause escape, sir. He sent me a challenge, mixt with some few 
braves, which I restored ; and, in fine, we met. Now indeed, sir, I must tell 
you, he did offer at first very desperately, but without judgment ; for look you, 
sir, I cast myself into this figure ; now he came violently on, and withal advanc- 
ing his rapier to strike, I thouglit to have took his arm, for he had left his body 
to my election, and I was sure he could not recover his guard. Sir, I mis* my 
purpose in his arm, rashed his doublet sleeves, r,an him close by the left cheek 
and through his hair. He, again, light me here — I had on a gold cable hat- 
band, then new come up, about a murrey French hat I had ; cuts my liat-band, 
and yet it was massy goldsmith’s work, cuts my brim, which, by good fortune, 
being thick embroidered with gold twist and spangles, disappointed the force of 
the blow ; nevertheless it grazed on my shoulder, takes me away six purls of an 
Italian cut-work band I wore, cost me three pounds in the Exchange but three 
days before 

“ Punt, This w’as a strange encounter. 

“ Fast. Nay, you shall hear, sir. With this, we both fell out and breathed. 
Now, upon the second sign of his assault, I betook me to my former manner of 
defence ; he, on the other side, abandoned his body to the siime danger as before, 
and follows me still with blows ; but I, being loath to take the deadly advantage 
that lay before me of his left side, made a kind of stramazoun, ran him up to the 
hilt through the doublet, through the shirt, and yet missed the skin. He, mak- 
ing a reverse blow, falls upon my embossed girdle, — I had thrown off the hangers 
a little before, — strikes off a skirt of a thick-laced satin doublet I had, lined with 
four taffetas, cuts off two p,anes embroidered with pearl, rends through the 
drawings-out of tissue, enters the linings, and skips the flesh. 

“ Car. I wonder he speaks not of his wrought shirt. 

“Fast. Here, in the opinion of mutual damage, w’e paused. But, ere I 
proceed, I must tell you, signior, that in the last encounter, not having leisuie 
to put oft' my silver spurs, one of the rowels catched hold of the nifties of my 
boot, and, being Spanish leather and subject to tear, overthrows me, rends mi* 


NOTES TO THE MONASTBET 


362 

two pair of silk stockings that I put on, being somewhat of a raw morning, a 
peacli colour and another, and strikes me some half-inch deep into the side of the 
calf : He, seeing the blood come, presently takes horse and away : I having 
bound up my wound with a piece of my wrought shirt 

“ Car. O, comes it in there ? 

“ Fast. Ride after him, and, lighting at the court-gate both together, 
embraced, and marched hand in hand up into the presence. Was not this 
business well carried ? 

“ Macu Well ! yes; and by this we can guess what apparel the gentleman 
wore. 

“ Punt. 'Fore valour ! it was a designment begun with much resolution, 
maintained with as much prowess, and ended with more humanity.” 


Note L. p. 31 1. Good Faith of the Borderers. 

As some atonement for their laxity of morals on most occasions, the Borderers 
were severe observers of the faith which they had pledged, even to an enemy. 
If any person broke his word so plighted, the individual to whom faith had not 
been observed, used to bring to the next Border-meeting a glove hung on the 
point of a spear, and proclaim to Scots and English the name of the defaulter. 
This was accounted so great a dis^ace to all connected with him, that his own 
clansmen sometimes destroyed him, to escape the Infamy he had brought on 
them. 

Constable, a spy engaged by Sir Ralph Sadler, talks of two Border thieves, 
whom he used as his guides, — “ That they would not care to steal, and yet that 
they would not betray any man that trusts in them, for all the gold in Scotland 
or in France. They are my guides and outlaws. If they would betray me they 
might get their pardons, and cause me to be hanged ; but I have tried them ere 
this.” — Sadler’s Letters during the Northern Insurrection. 


Note M. p. 313. Ikoddcehcss of the Monks. 

The biberes, caritas, and boiled almonds, of which Abbot Boniface speaks, 
were special occasions for enjoying luxuries, afforded to the monks by grants 
from different sovereigns, or from other benefactors to the convent. There is 
one of these charters called De Pitancia Centum Librarum. By this charter, 
which is very curious, our Robert Bruce, on the 10th January, and in the twelfth 
year of his reign, assigns, out of the customs of Berwick, and failing them, out 
of the customs of Edinburgh or Haddington, the sum of one hundred pounds, at 
the half-yearly terms of Pentecost and Saint Martin’s in winter, to the abbot and 
community of the monks of Melrose. The precise purpose of this annuity is to 
furnish to each of the monks of the said monastery, while placed at food in tlie 
refectory, an extra mess of rice boiled with milk, or of almonds, or peas, or other 
pulse of that kind which could be procured in the country. This addition to 
their commons is to be entitled the King’s Mess. And it is declared, that 
although any monk should, from some honest apology, want appetite or inclina- 
tion to eat of the king’s mess, his share should, nevertheless, be placed on the 
table with those of his brethren, and afterwards carried to the gate and given to 
the poor. “ Neither is it our pleasure,” continues the bountiful sovereign, 
“ that the dinner, which is or ought to be served up to the said monks according 
to their ancient rule, should be diminished in quantity, or rendered inferior in 
quality, on account of this our mess, so funiished as aforesaid.” It is, moreover, 
provided, that the abbot, with the consent of the most sage of his brethren, shall 
name a prudent and decent monk for receiving, directing, and expending, all 
matters concerning this annuity for the benefit of the community, agreeably to 
tlie royal desire and intention, rendering a faithful account thereof to the abbot 
and superiors of the same convent. And the same charter declares tlie king’s 
farther pleasure, that the said men of religion should be bound yearly and for 
ever, in acknowledgment of the above donation, to clothe fifteen poor men at the 
faast of Saint Martin in winter, and to feed them on the same day, delivering to 
each of them four ells of large or broad, or six ells of narrow cloth, and to each 
also a new pair of shoes or sandals, according to their order ; and if the said 
monks shall fail in their engagements, or any of them, it is the king’s will that 
the fault shall be redeemed by a double performance of what has been omitted, 
to be executed at the sight of the chief forester of Ettrick for the time being, 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. S63 

and before the return of Saint Martin’s day succeeding that on which the 
omission has taken place. 

Of this charter, respecting the pittance of L.lOO assigned to furnish the monks 
of Melrose with a daily mess of boiled rice, almonds, or other pulse, to mend 
their commons, the antiquarian reader will be pleased, doubtless, to see the 
original. 

Carta Reois Roberti 1 . Abbati et Contentui de Melrose. 

Carta de Pitancia Centum Librarum. 

“ Robertus Dei gracia Rex Scottorum omnibus probis hominibus tocius terre 
sue Salutem. Sciatis nos pro salute anime nostre et pro salute animarum ante- 
ce.ssorum et successorum nostrorum Regum Scocie Dedisse Concessisse et hac 
present! Carta nostra confirmasse Deo et Beate Marie virgin! et Religiosis viris 
Abbati et Conventui de Melross et eorum successoribus in perpetuum Centum 
I/ihras Sterlingorum Annui Kedditus singulis annis percipiendas de tirmisnostris 
Burgi Berwici super Twedam ad terminos Pentecostis et Sancti Martini in hyeine 
pro equal! portione vel de nova Custuma nostra Burgi predict! si firme nostre pre- 
dicte ad dictam summam pecunie sufficere non poterunt vel de nova Custuma 
nostra Burgorum nostrorum de Edenburg et da Hadington Si firme nostre et 
Custuma nostra ville Berwici aliquo casu contingente ad hoc forte non sufficiant. 
Ita quod dicta summa pecunie Centum Librarum eisannuatim integre et absque 
contradictione aliqua plenarie persolvatur pre cunctis aliis quibuscunque assigna- 
cionibus per nos factis seu facieudis ad inveniendum in perpetuum singulis diebus 
cuilibet monacho monasterii predict! coinedenti in Refectorio unum sufficiens 
ferculum risarum^factarum cum lacte, amigdalarum vel pisirum sive aliorum 
ciborum consimilis condicionis inventorura in patria et illud ferculmn ferculum 
Itegis vocabitur in eternum. Et si aliquis monachus ex aliqua causa honesta do 
dicto ferculo comedere noluerit vel refici non poterit non minus attamen sibi de 
dicto ferculo ministretur et ad portam pro pauperibus deportetur. Nec volumus 
quod occasione ferculi nostri predict! prandium diet! Conventus do quo antiquitus 
conununiter eis deserviri sive ministrari solebat in aliquo pejoretur seu diminua- 
tur. Volumus insuper et ordinamus quod Abbas ejusdem monasterii qui pro 
tempore fuerit de consensu saniorum de Conventu specialiter constituat unum 
monachum providum et discretum ad recipiendum ordinandum et expendendum 
totam summam pecunie memorate pro utilitate conventus secundum votum et 
intencionem mentis nostre superius annotatum et ad reddendum fidele compotum 
coram Abbate et Maioribus de Conventu singulis annis de pecunia sic recepta. 
Et volumus quod dicti religiosi teneantur annuatim in perpetuum pro predicta 
donacione nostra ad perpetuam nostri memoriam vestire quindecim pauperes an 
festum Sancti Martini In hieme et eosdem cibare eodem die liberando eorum 
cuilibet quatuor ulnas panni gross! et lati vel sex ulnas panni strict! et eorum 
cuilibet unum novum par sotularium de ordine suo. Et si dicti religiosi in pre- 
missis vel aliquo premissorum aliquo anno defecerint volumus quod illud quod 
minus perimpletum fuerit dupplicetur diebus magis necessariis per visum capita- 
lis forestarii nostri de Selkirk, qui pro tempore fuerit. Et quod dicta dupplica- 
tio fiat ante natale domini proximo sequens festum Sancti Martini predictum. In 
cujus rei testimonium present! Carte nostre sigillum nostrum precipimus apponi. 
Testibus venerabilibus in Christo patribus Willielnio, Johanne, Willielmo et 
David Sancti Andree, Glasguensis, Dunkeldensis et Moraviensis ecclesiarum dei 
gracia episcopis Bernardo Abbate de Abirbrothock Cancellario, Duncano, Mali- 
sio, et Hugone de Fyf de Strathin et de Ross, Comitibus Waltero Senescallo 
Scocie. Jacobo domini de Duglas et Alexandro Fraser Camerario nostro Socie 
militibus. Apud Abirbrothock, decimo die January. Anno Regni nostri 
vicesimo. 


Note N. p. 347. Pedigree of the Dopglas Family. 

The late excellent and laborious antiquary, Mr George Chalmers, has rebuked 
the vaunt of the House of Douglas, or rather of Hume of Godscroft, their histo- 
rian, but with less than his wonted accuracy. In the first volume of his Caledo- 
nia, he quotes the passage in Godscroft for the purpose of confuting it. 

The historian (of the Douglasses) cries out, “ We do not know. them in the 
fountain, but in the stream ; not in the root, but in the stem ; for we know not 
which is the mean man that did rise above the vulgar.” This assumption Mr 


364 NOTES TO THE MONASTERV 

Clialmers conceives ill-timed, and alleges, that if the historian had attended more 
to researeli than to declamation, he might easily have seen the first mean man 
of this renowned family This he alleges to have been one Theobaldns Flamma- 
ticiis, or Theobald the Fleming, to whom Arnold, Abbot of Kelso, between the 
year 1147 and 1160, granted certain lands on Douglas water, by a deed which Mr 
Chalmers conceives to be the first link of the chain of title-deeds to Douglasdale. 
Hence, he says, tlie femily must renounce their family domain, or acknowledge 
this obscure Fleming as their ancestor. Theobald the Fleming, it is acknow- 
ledged, did not himself assume the name of Douglas ; “ but,” says the antiquary, 
‘‘his son William, who inherited his estate, called himself, and was named by 
:>thers, De Duglas and he refers to the deeds in which he is so designed. ISIr 
Chalmers’s full argument may be found in the first volume of his Caledonia, 
p. 579. 

This proposition is one which a Scotsman will admit unwillingly, and only upon 
■jndeniable testimony ; and as it is liable to strong grounds of challenge, the 
present author, with all the respect to Mr Chalmers which his zealous and effec- 
tual researches merit, is not unwilling to take this opportunity to state some 
plausible grounds for doubting that Theobaldus Flammaticus was cither the 
fether of the first William de Douglas, or in the slightest degree connected with 
the Douglas family. 

It must first be observed, that there is no reason whatever for concluding 
Theobaldus Flammaticus to be the father of William de Douglas, except that 
they both held lands upon the small river of Douglas ; and that there are two 
strong presumptions to the contrary. For, first, the father being named Fleming, 
there seems no good reason why the son should have assumed a different designa- 
tion ; secondly, there does not occur a single instance of the name of Theobald 
during the long line of the Douglas pedigree, an omission very unlikely to take 
place had the original father of the race been so called. Tliese are secondary con- 
siderations indeed ; but they are important, in so far as they exclude any support 
of Mr Chalmers’s system, except from the point which he has rather assumed 
than proved, namely, that the lands granted to Theobald the Fleming were the 
same which were granted to William de Douglas, and which constituted the 
original domain of which we find this powerful family lords. 

Now, it happens, singularly enough, that the lands granted by the Abbot of 
Kelso to Tlieobaldus Flammaticus are not the same of which William de Douglas 
was in possession. Nay, it would appear, from comparing the charter granted to 
Theobaldus Flammaticus, that, though situated on the water of Douglas, they 
never made a part of the barony of that name, and therefore cannot be the same 
with those held by William de Douglas in the succeeding generation. But if 
William de Douglas did not succeed Theobaldus Flammaticus. there is no more 
reason for holding these two persons to be father and son than if they had lived 
in different provinces ; and we are .still as far from having discovered the first 
mean man of the Douglas family as Hume of Godscroft was in the 16th century'. 
We leave the question to antiquaries and genealogists. 

Note 0, p. 347. Pkdigree of the Stewart Family. 

To atone to the memory of the learned and indefatigable Chalmers for having 
ventured to impeach his genealogical proposition concerning the descent of the 
Douglasses, we are bound to render him our grateful thanks for the felicitous light 
which he has thrown on that of the House of Stewart, still more important to 
Scoftish hi.story. 

The acute pen of Lord Hailes which, like the spear of Ithuriel, conjured so 
many shadows from Scottish history, had dismissed among the rest those of Banquo 
and Fleance, the rejection of which fables left the illustrious family of Stewart 
without an ancestor beyond Walter the son of Allan, who is alluded to in the 
text. The researches of our late learned antiquary detected in this Walter, the 
descendant of Allan, the son of Flaald, who obtained from William the 
Conqueror the Castle of Oswestry in Shropshire, and was the father of an 
illustrious line of English nobles, by his first son, William, and by his second son, 
Walter, the progenitor of the royal family of Stewart. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


3G5 


Note P, p. 351. The White Spirit, 

The contrivance of provoking the irritable vanity of Sir Piercie Shafton, oy 
prescnthig liiiii with a bodkin, indicative of his descent from a tiiilor, is borrowed 
romance, by the celebrated Tieck, called Das Peter IManchen, 
?. c. The Dwarf Peter. The being who gives name to the tale, is the Burg-geist, 
or castle spectre, of a German family, whom he aids with his counsel, as he 
defends their castle by his supernatural power. But the Dwarf Peter is so 
unfor^nate an adviser, that all his counsels, though producing success in the 
immediate results, are in the issue attended with mishap and with guilt. The 
youthful baron, the owner of the haunted castle, falls in love with a maiden, the 
daughter of a neighbouring count, a man of great pride, who refuses him the 
hand of the young lady, on account of his own superiority of descent. The lover 
repulsed and affronted, returns to take counsel with the Dwarf Peter, how he 
may silence the count, and obtain the victory in the argument, the next time 
they enter on the topic of pedigree. The dwarf gives his patron or pupil a horse- 
shoe, instructing him to give it to the count v/hen he is next giving himself 
superior airs on the subject of his family. It has the effect accordingly. The 
count, understanding it as an allusion to a misalliance of one of his ancestors 
with the daughter of a blacksmith, is thrown into a dreadful passion with the 
young lover, the consequences of which are the seduction of the young lady, and 
tlie slaughter of her father. 

If we suppose the dwarf to represent the corrupt part of human nature, — that 
‘‘ law in our members which wars against the faw cf our minds,” — the work 
icrms ar. ingenious allegory. 


GLOSSARY. 


AefagLd, honest. 

Aver, draught-horse. 

Bedral, a sexton. 

Beef-brew'is, beef-soup. 

BEN,/a/- hen, far in, very intimate. 
Bieli), shelter. 

Birx, a burn. 

Bow, a boll measure. 

Bower-wo.^ian, lady’s-maid. 

Braw, brave, fine. 

Broach, a roasting spit. 

Brochan, a sort of thick giuiel. 
Brogg, to prick or stick with a goad 
or lance. 

Bu.SK, to deck. 

Callet, the head. 

Cantrip, a frolic. 

Canty, cheerful. 

Carle, a fellow. 

Carline, a witch. 

Cawker, sharpened horse-shoe. 
Clap and iiappek, signs of investi- 
ture into mill property. 

Clecking, hatching. 

Cledcii, a ravine or dell. 

Cloot, a rag. 

Cock-laird, a squire who tills his 
own land. 


Coffe, merchant. 

Cogging knave, greedy fellow. 
CoLLOPs, minced meat. 

Cracks, gossip, yarns. 

Cummer, neighbour. 

Cushat, the ring-dove. 

Baffin, larking. 

Darg, a task, -work. 

Dight tour GA3, liold your tongue. 
Douce, quiet. 

Earded, buried. 

Erne, the eagle. 

Fash, trouble. 

Fend, to provide. 

Firlot, a measure. 

Fleighter, to flicker. 

Forbears, ancestors. 

Forby, besides. 

Forgather, to meet with. 

Frae, from. 

Galligaskin, a wide sort of trouser. 
Gazf.-iiound, a greyhound. 

Ger or GAR, to cause, make, or force. 
Gled, the kite. 

Gleg, smart. 

Gey thick, pretty thick. 


366 


WAVERLEY NOVELS. 


Gliff, a glance. 

Greet, to cry or weep. 

Grist, grain in payment for giinding. 
Gyre-carlinb, hag, hobgoblin. 

Haggis, a pudding of minced meat. 
Halidome, land held under an abbey. 
Hap, to cover up. 

Haud, to hold. 

Heatiter-bleatee, the mire snipe. 
Hempie, a lad. 

Hirsel, a flock or drove. 
Horse-cooper, horse-dealer. 

Howff, a retreat or resort. 

IIowK, to dig. 

Ilk, each. 

Ingyre, introduce one’s self cun- 
ningly. 

Joe, a sweetheart. 

JouK, to shift or incline. 

Kail-worm, cabbage worm. 

K AIN FOAVLS, poultry due as rent. 
Keeking-glass, a looking-glass. 
Kendna, knew not. 

Kenspecyxe, conspicuous, odd-like. 
Kestrel, a species of hawk. 

Kipper, dried salmon. 

Kirn, a churn. 

Kittle, ticklish, sly. 

Knowe, a knoll. 

Kyte, the belly. 

Lamping, taking long strides. 
Lawing, the account or bill. 

Lee, lie. 

Lentin kail. Lent or thin broth, 
Likit, liked, 

Limmer, a scoundreL 
Ling, long dry grass, 

Lippy, quarter of a peck measure. 
Lither, lazy. 

Lunt, a match. 

Lurdane, worthless. 

Meal-girnel, meal-chest. 

Melder, meal sent for grinding. 
Wesson, a cur. 

Misleared, ill-bred. 

Moss-hag, a bog-pit. 

Mdg-ewe, a long-wooUed sheep. 
Mycertes! my faith. 

Pantoufle, a slipper. 

Pearlins, a kind of lace. 
Pedder-coffe, travelling merchant. 
Pinners, lady’s head - dress with 
lappets. 


Pleuch-pettle, the plough stick, 
sometimes the plough stilt. 

Ploy, an entertainment, &gaudeamus. 
Pock-pudding, epithet applied to 
Englishmen. 

Pyet words, ornate language. 

Rape, a rope. 

Redd, to clear. 

Rede, counsel, advice. 

Rickle, a heap. 

Rokelay, a short cloak. 

Rowan-tree, the mountain ash. 
Rung, a cudgel. 

Sain, to bless. 

Saunt, saint. 

Saot-fat, a salt-cellar. 

Sey, woollen cloth. 

Shook, shoes. 

Skelp, gallop. 

Sough, calm sough, a quiet tongue. 
Spae-w'ife, a fortune-teller. 

Speer, to inquire. 

Spence, the pantiy. 

Springald, a smart youth. 

Stammel, reddish, 

Steek, a stitch. 

Steer, disturb. 

Swankie, a smart fellow. 

Tale-pyet, tell-tale. 

Thraw, to twist. 

Threep, to aver or contend for. 

Tirl, to turn or twist. 

Tillyvally, trifling, impertinent. 
Tocher, dowiy. 

Tod, a fox. 

Trangam, a trinket. 

Trotters, sheep’s feet singed. 
Tuilzie, a scuffle or embroglio. 

Twal, twelve. 

Umquhile, the deceased. 

UsQUEBACH, whisky. 

Vi vers, victuals. 

Wanion, misfortune. 

Waur, worse. 

Wean, an infant or child. 

Weft, a signal. 

Weise, to guide, direct, or turn. 

Wem, a mark. 

Whinger, a heavy sort of sword. 
Whirried, whirled. 

WiNNA, will not. 

Wylie-coat, an under coat or vest. 

Yammer, to whimper or whine. 
Yoldrino, the yellow-hammer. 


printed by NEILL AND 00., EDU. 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□ □DEE'=]abt.0D 


